UC-NRLF 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


ALUMNUS 
BOOK  FUND 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTEK. 


Naoel 


BY  JUSTIN  MCCARTHY, 

«i    S  * 

AUTHOR    OF    "THE    WATERDALE    NEIGHBORS,"    &c. 


ILLUSTRATED. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER    &     BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN    SQUARE. 
1869. 


ALUMNUS 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

RETROSPECT  ;    AND  MIST. 

IT  is  a  wet  Sunday  evening  in  the  leaden  heart 
of  London.     I  am  now  in  the  Bloomsbury  re- 
gion; and  perhaps  I  need  hardly  say  that  no- 
thing on  earth  could  be  more  dull,  dingy,  and 
impicturesque  in  itself  than  the  prospect  from 
my  windows.     Yet  just  now,  in  the  deepening 
gloom  of  a  rainy  dusk,  I  seem  to  look  on  some- 
thing not  unlike  one  of  the  most  picturesque 
and  romantic  scenes  whereon  my  eyes  have  ever 
rested.     "  Ich  weiss  nicht  was  soil  es  bedeuten ; " 
but  the  ridges  of  the  houses  opposite  begin  to 
show  through  the  steaming  mist  fantastically 
like  the  outlines  of  the  hills  I  used  to  see  every 
day  years  ago,  and  the  broad  blank  lying  be- 
tween me  and  over  the  way  may  easily  enough 
seem  filled  by  the  stretch  of  bay  I  have  watched 
when  it  lay  wild  and^  drear  on  the  wet  evenings 
-of  late  autumn  like 'this.     The  kindly,  loving, 
artistic  fog  and  rain,  which  now  hide  all  but 
the  faint  and  softened  outlines  of  our  street, 
have  done  this  for  me;  and  lo!  in  Bloomsbury 
I  am  looking  upon  sea  and  hill  once  more. 
The  very  sounds  of  London  city-life  come  to 
help  out  the  illusion.     That  cry  of  the  oyster- 
man  below  is  a  good  deal  more  like  the  scream 
of  some  sea-bird  than  most  theatrical  imitations 
are  like  the  reality.     The  church-bells  clinking 
and  tolling  for  evening  service  are  to  me  now 
the  bell  of  the  church  to  which  I  used  to  be 
conducted  when  a  boy  on  Sundays,  and  with 
which  so  many  of  the  associations  of  my  after- 
life inevitably  connect  themselves.     It  used  to 
be  a  dreadful  ceremonial,  that  service,  to  us 
boys,  on  the  fine  Sundays  of  summer.     It  was 
bad  enough  in  winter;  but  in  summer  it  be- 
came unspeakably  more  torturing.     There  was 
a  window  in  the  church  close  to  where  we  used 
to  sit — poor  little  weary,  yawning  martyrs — and 
the  branches  of  an  elm  flapped  unceasingly  on 
the  panes.     Tantalus-torture  was  it  to  watch 
the  tender,  lucent  leaves,  free  in  the  glorious 
air  of  May  or  June,  as  they  flickered  across  the 
window,  and  seemed  to  whisper  of  the  blue  sky 
and  the  shingly  strand  and  the  waves  of  trans- 
parent emerald  which  they  could  see  and  we 
could  not;    while  the  organ  pealed  and  the 
clergyman  preached  the  long  sermon  to  which 
we  never  listened.     I  do  not  know  how  it  is, 
that  when  I  thus  sit  alone  of  nights  and  do  not 
feel  inclined  to  read,  or  steadily  to  go  to  work 
at  something,  every  object  I  see,  flame,  cloud, 
or  even  chimney-pot,  reminds  me  in  mn  inde- 


scribable, irresistible  way,  of  some  object  be- 
longing to  the  dear,  dull  little  sea-port  town 
where  I,  Emanuel  Temple  Banks,  was  born 
some  five-and-thirty  years  ago. 

I  have  now  written  my  full  name,  but  it  is 
long  since  I  have  been  known  otherwise  than  as 
Emanuel  Temple.     I  pruned  my  name  down  to 
its  present  brevity  for  reasons  which  shall  be 
explained  in  due  time.     I  was  called  "Emanuel 
Temple"  because  my  mother  had  a  proper  wo- 
manly objection  to   commonplace   or   vulgar 
names,  and  since  we  could  call  ourselves  no- 
thing better  than   Banks,   resolved   that   we 
should  at  least  have  euphonious  and  elegant 
Christian  names.     Therefore,  instead   of  be- 
coming, as  was  suggested,  John  Banks  and 
Peter  Banks,  my  brother  and  I  became  Eman- 
uel Temple  Banks  and  Theodore  Eustace  Banks 
respectively.     I  scarcely  know  by  what  process 
Theodore  Eustace  and  myself  were  brought  up. 
We  were  the  only  children — I  the  elder  by  a 
year — and  my  father  died  when  I  was  six  years 
old.      He  had  owned  fishing-boats,  and  was 
doing  well,  until,  at  the  instigation  of  my  mo- 
ther, he  unfortunately  took  to  immature  build- 
ng  speculations,  and  failed  accordingly,  fishing- 
joats  and  all  going  down  in  the  land-wreck, 
ndeed,  my  poor  father  did  not  remain  long 
,fter  the  ruin  of  his  venture,  and  my  mother 
lad  to  live  by  making  gloves  and  trying  to  let 
odgings.     She  had  been  a  genteel  woman  of 
ler  class  at  one  time ;  and  being  engaged  in 
ne  of  the  few  pretentious  millinery  shops  in 
ur  little  town,  was  regarded  by  her  friends  as 
laving  made  quite  a  sort  of  mesalliance  when 
she  married  my  father,  who  was  then  only  a 
good-looking  young  boat-builder,  with  a  fine 
voice  for  singing.   '  She  was  very  sentimental 
then,  was  poor  mother — so  she  has  often  told 
me — and  those  were  the  days  when  the  heart 
of  sentimental  womanhood  was  divided  between 
the  Corsair  and  the  Lady  of  the  Lake.     My  mo- 
ther loved  both,  but  leaned  to  the  Corsair ;  and 
found  a  resemblance  between  that  hero  and  my 
father.     To  her  latest  days  she  was  fond  of  re- 
peating whole  strings  of  "My  own  Medora," 
and  Ellen  and  James  Fitzjames — and  I  doubt 
much  whether  Locksley  Hall  and  Maud  are  often 
recited  and  raved  about  and  glorified  in  the 
shops  of  provincial  milliners  just  now.     Poetry 
and  romance  seem  to  have  taken  a  terrible  grip 
of  the  female  heart  at  that  time,  and  to  have 
released  the  squeeze  in  our  days. 

Besides  being  romantic,  my  mother  was  like- 
se  religious — a  combination  which  also  does 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


not  seem  to  flourish  in  our  time.  Heaven  only 
knows  how  painfully  she  labored  and  strove  to 
give  and  get  us  some  education  in  religion  and 
poetry.  She  loved  her  sons  dearly,  weakly, 
and  her  most  passionate  prayer  of  nights  was 
that  they  might  never,  never  leave  her.  The 
dearest  wish  and  ambition  of  her  heart  would 
have  been  that  one  of  the  two  might  become  a 
gentle  clergyman,  and  the  other,  whatever  his 
ordinary  pursuits,  a  church-warden.  If  she  had 
lived  until  now,  oh  !  what  a  Ritualist  she  would 
have  been !  Her  prayers  for  the  future  of  her 
sons  were  not  even  half  granted.  One  of  the 
sons  went,  very  young,  to  America,  and  became 
a  Rationalist.  The  other  came  up  to  London 
and  turned  opera-singer. 

As  soon  as  I  could  write  a  decent  hand  some 
good-natured  person  got  me  a  situation  in  the 
office  of  an  attorney  and  land-agent.     I  began 
as  the  youngest  and  lowest  of  clerks — a  sort  of 
cross  between  a  messenger  and  a  scrivener's  ap- 
prentice—never, of  course,  intended  to  develo 
into  that  pretentious  grub  the  articled  clerk 
who  in  his  time  develops  into  the  attorney, 
had  five  shillings  a  week  to  begin  with,  and 
think  the  head  clerk  had  a  hundred  and  fift 
pounds  a  year.     Perhaps,  but  for  subsequen 
events,  I  might  have  worked  up  to  hold  tha 
position,,  and  receive  that  emolument,  in  mv 
turn.     Indeed,  I  mounted  very  steadily  up  t" 
thirty  shillings  a  week,  but  there  I  stopped  and 
got  off  the  ladder.     Before  I  had  attained  tha 
eminence,  however,  my  brother,  who  had  tried 
one  or  two  situations  unsuccessfully,  and  wa 
always  alarming  my  mother  with  his  longing 
and  projects  for  going  to  sea,  compromised  mat 
ters  by  resolving  to  seek  his  fortune  in  Amer 
ica.     My  mother  had  to  consent  at  last — in- 
deed, hard  times  allowed  her  no  choice — and 
some  poor  outfit  was  scraped  together.     It  was 
arranged  that  I  must  stay  at  home  and  work 
for  mother  until  her  sons  should  become  wealthy 
men,   when  we  were  to  live   in  one   country 
and  one  home,  and  she  was  to  keep  house  foi 
both.     We  had  much  crying  and  feeble  keep- 
ing-up  of  each  other's  spirits,  and  we  parted  full 
of  grief,  but   not  without    hope.       Theodore 
Eustace  took  with  him  the  latch-key  of  our 
door,  with  which  he  used  to  let  himself  in  of 
nights,  promising  himself  and  us  that  he  would 
return  before  long,  laden,  doubtless,  with  wealth, 
arrive  unexpectedly,  and  opening  the  door  soft- 
ly, steal  in  upon  my  mother  and  me  as  we  sat 
some  evening  by  the  fire  and  talked  of  him. 

He  wrote  to  us  when  he  got  a  situation  in  a 
dry-goods  store,  Broadway,  New  York,  and  very 
soon  after,  when  he  lost  it ;  when  he  went  out 
next  and  became  successively  a  hawker,  a  rail- 
way-clerk, a  photographer,  an  electro-biologist, 
a  newspaper  correspondent,  and  a  farmer.  In 
each  successive  calling  he  was  most  positively  to 
succeed,  and  to  make  up  for  all  the  time— never 
very  much,  that  was  one  comfort— which  he  had 
lost  in  the  vocation  just  abandoned.  He  never 
remitted  any  thing  except  a  sketch  of  a  forest 
clearing,  and  a  dried  mosquito  as  a  specimen 


of  the  animal  life  of  the  New  World.     I  think 
my  mother  placed  the  mosquito's  corpse  ten- 
derly in  her  bosom.     He  has  sown  all  his  wild 
oats  long  since.     He  was  lately  married  for  the 
third  time,  and  I  believe  got  money,  or  prop- 
erty of  some  sort,  with  each  of  the  wives.     He 
was  just  the  sort  of  bright,  exuberant,  reckless, 
blundering,  soft-hearted  fellow  whom  a  certain 
kind  of  women,  and  all  dogs,  and  all  animals 
of  tender  natures  indeed,  instinctively  take  to. 
He  has  many  children,  and  is  well-to-do  now 
and  steady.     He  still  writes,  although  at  long 
intervals.     He  says  he  has  the  latch-key  still, 
which  I  doubt— Theodore  Eustace  was  seldom 
very  literal  in  his  statements.     But  even  if  he 
has,  it  will  never  open  the  door  for  which  he 
meant  to  use  it.     Were  he  to  return  to  our  old 
street,  so  sunny  and  pleasant  in  summer,  with 
its  glimpse  of  the  sea  through  every  lane,  ho 
would  find  no   creature  there  whom  once  he 
knew ;  and  the  place  itself  would  know  him  no 
more.     The  little  row  of  houses  in  which  we 
lived  has  been  pulled  down  long  since  to  make 
way  for  more  pretentious  habitations— marine 
residences,  semi-detached  villas,  sea-side  board- 
ing-houses, and  the  like.    In  my  own  season  of 
success  I  often  contemplated  a  tour  through 
America  as  a   "star."     I  thought  of  setting 
New  York   wild  with   admiration,   filling  my 
brother's  heart  with  ecstasy,  and  cramming  his 
house  with  presents.     Something,  however,  al- 
ways intervened  to  postpone  the  journey,  and 
before  I  had  finally  made  up  my  mind  the  best 
of  my  voice  had  gone,  and  my  reputation  was 
pulled  down,  like  our  old  house,  to  make  way 
for  a  new  erection  upon  a  more  secure  basis.  * 
From  my  father  I  had  inherited  a  good  voice, 
et  prceterea  nil.      There  are   families  through 
which  a  good  voice  appears  to  move  in  order 
of  primogeniture  ;  and  I  have  observed  that  a 
fine  tenor,  thus  bequeathed,  rarely  seems  an  in- 
heritance which  brings  much  worldly  providence 
or  prosperity.    My  father  was  always  under  the 
impression  that  he  only  wanted  a  lucky  chance 
to  have  made  him  another  Incledon,  who  was 
of  course  his  hero,  and  whose  rolling,  quaver- 
ng,  florid  style,  unknown  to  this  generation,  he 
did  his  best  to  imitate.     I  can  not  help  think- 
ng  the  fishing-boats  and  the  building  specula- 
ions  would  have  fared  a  good  deal  better  if  my 
ather  had  had  no  more  voice  than  a  grasshop- 
>er,  and  had  therefore  found  no  admiring  idlers 
o  persuade  him  that  he  was  another  Incledon. 
However,  it  is  quite  certain  that  at  an  early- 
age  my  voice  became  remarkable ;   and  some 
of  my  father's  whilom  admiring  idlers  did  gen- 
rously  take  me  in  hand  and  provide  me  with 
not  very  inadequate  training.      My  mother's 
read  of  my  developing  power  was  turned  into 
onfidence  and  pride  when  I  began  to  sing  in 
lie  choir  of  our  church  on  Sundays.     I  paused 
ot  in  my  progress  until  I  had  actually  been 
)romoted  to  the  post  of  primo  ttnore  there,  at  a 
enumeration  of  twenty  pounds  a  year. 
This  seemed  to  us  what  sea-coast  people  call 
the  third  wave"  of  promise,  on  which  we  were 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


to  be  safely  lifted  into  prosperity.  But  it  came 
a  little  too  late.  My  mother's  life  had  long 
been  on  the  wane.  Grief,  anxiety,  poverty, 
late  long  sewing,  had  been  doing  for  years  their 
combined  best  with  her,  and  at  last  she  utterly 
broke  down.  I  was  nineteen  years  old  when  I 
found  myself  watching,  in  the  gray  of  a  cold 
spring  morning,  with  our  clergyman  and  one 
or  two  kindly  old  women,  by  the  side  of  the 
bed  in  which  my  mother  recovered  at  last  from 
all  sickness  and  all  sorrow.  A  pale,  wan  ray 
of  the  rising  sun  gleamed  upon  the  cold  face 
whereon  so  little  of  the  sunshine  of  happiness 
had  rested.  A  quaint  little  burial-ground  clings 
and  straggles  along  the  side  of  one  of  the  hills 
which  rises  over  the  bay.  You  may  count  ev- 
ery tombstone  and  grave-hillock  from  the  deck 
of  any  of  the  fishing-boats  that  toss  in  the  surf 
beneath.  Many  a  monument  is  erected  there 
by  the  widow  of  some  lost  skipper  or  mate  in 
memory  of  the  husband  whose  bones  have  been 
tossed  ashore  on  some  Pacific  island,  or  have 
been  gnawed  and  mumbled  by  the  Arctic  bear. 
There  we  laid  my  mother,  disturbing  for  the 
purpose  some  of  the  ashes  which  had  been  cof- 
fined when  my  father  was  buried.  I  came 
away  from  the  grave  alone.  The  scene  I  saw 
as  1  turned  away  is  before  m.e  now.  I  see  it 
clearly — as  clearly  as  then.  The  hills — we  used 
to  think  them  mountains — that  embraced  the 
long,  narrow  stretch  of  bay  in  their  arms  ;  the 
far  line  of  the  horizon;  the  straggling  white 
town  just  under  my  feet;  the  strand  whereon 
lay  the  hauled-up  fishing-boats  ;  the  merchant- 
brigs  and  the  coal-schooners  anchored  ;  the  one 
war-sloop ;  the  tree-tufted  summit  of  one  hill, 
conspicuous  among  its  bare  and  bald  compan- 
ions ;  and  over  all  the  gray  sky  breaking  faint- 
ly into  sunlight — as  over  my  own  life  the  mist 
of  sadness  and  loneliness  just  breaking  a  little 
with  the  purple  light  of  youth. 

I  am  not  going  to  write  of  my  grief  and  lone- 
liness. I  suffered  bitterly  and  heavily,  but  the 
passing  away  of  a  year  or  so  softened  the  grief 
into  a  gentle  memory.  At  twenty  I  was  full 
of  hope  and  spirits  again,  secretly  perhaps  even 
proud  of  my  desolate  independence,  and  be- 
lieving myself  a  personage  of  rare  endowments, 
destined  to  some  special  and  wonderful  career. 
But  because  of  my  mother's  death,  and  other 
and  earlier  associations  too,  the  gray  days  of 
spring  have  always  worn  for  me  the  most  mel- 
ancholy and  dispiriting  aspect.  I  see  the  early 
spring,  not  in  budding  brightness  and  beauty 
and  hope,  as  poetical  people  tell  me  they  see 
it,  but  dim,  dreary,  boding,  suggestive  of  lone- 
liness, associated  with  partings,  graves,  and 
death. 


CHAPTER  II. 

CHRISTINA     BRAUN. 


I  WAS,  then,  an  attorney's  clerk  all  the  week- 
days up  to  five  or  six  o'clock,  and  a  singer  of 
sacred  music  every  Sunday — a  singer  in  that 


same  little  church  the  sermons  and  the  bough- 
shaded  windows  of  which  used  to  distract  me 
so  when  a  boy. 

I  was  growing  a  sort  of  little  celebrity  in  our 
small  town  because  of  my  voice  and  my  sup- 
posed musical  genius.  I  mean  that  I  was  get- 
ting to  be  known  among  all  that  small  middle 
class  whose  highest  reach  toward  society  was 
the  patronage  of  the  clergyman's  wife  or  the 
attorney  and  his  family.  Our  town  was  divid- 
ed morally,  and  indeed  one  might  say  geograph- 
ically, into  three  sections.  There  were  "the 
townspeople"  —  ourselves  —  who  lived  in  the 
streets  on  what  I  may  call  the  middle  terrace 
of  the  ascent  on  which  chance  had  placed  us. 
We  were  all  traders,  shop-keepers,  clerks,  mas- 
ter carpenters,  a  few  engineers,  two  or  three 
teachers  of  French  and  music,  a  good  many 
principals  of  small  English  schools,  a  good 
many  civil  servants  of  the  unpretending  class. 
Beneath  us  stretched,  reaching  to  the  water's 
edge,  and  straggling  away  rather  toward  the 
rising  sun,  a  lower  plateau  of  population,  con- 
sisting of  public  house  keepers,  rope- makers, 
block-makers,  fishermen,  sailors,  and  nonde- 
script poor  people  of  all  kinds — poor  people 
avowing  and  indeed  going  in  for  pauperism. 
Above  us,  and  stretching  away  westward,  were 
the  villas  and  mansions  of  the  gentry,  the  swells 
who  only  carne  into  the  town  to  buy  at  the 
shops,  or  to  reach  the  sea.  Of  these  it  is 
enough  to  say — for  this  story  has  little  to  do 
with  the  aristocracy  of  the  earth — that  a  noble- 
man who  owned  nearly  all  the  country  round 
and  half  the  town  was  the  apex  of  the  pyra- 
mid, and  the  base  was  formed  by  the  fashion- 
able doctor  of  our  district,  the  attorney  in 
whose  office  I  worked,  two  or  three  clergy- 
men, the  collectors  of  customs  and  excise,  and 
a  few  retired  naval  officers.  Now  these  three 
sections  were  each  a  world  to  itself.  Nobody 
on  the  higher  plateau  knew  any  thing  about  us 
except  as  people  who  made  things  or  had  things 
to  sell ;  we  knew  little  of  the  lower  plateau  ex- 
cept in  an  equally  general  sort  of  way.  There- 
fore when  I  say  that  I  was  becoming  a  sort  of 
small  celebrity,  I  mean  of  course  only  in  my 
own  middle  sphere.  The  gentlemen  and  la- 
dies above  knew  and  cared  just  as  much  about 
me  and  my  like  as  the  tarry  lads  of  the  lower 
town  did,  or  indeed  as  the  crabs  and  star-fish 
on  the  beach  might  have  done.  If  any  grand 
personage  or  grand  personage's  wife  had  been 
attracted  by  my  singing  at  church  some  day, 
and  had  been  good  enough  to  ask  the  clergy- 
man who  the  singer  was,  the  answer  would 
have  been,  "  Only  a  young  man  from  the  town," 
and  that  would  have  settled  the  matter.  That 
was  enough  to  know ;  that  was  all  any  body 
could  want  to  know. 

But  I  was  getting  to  be  talked  about  among 
people  of  my  own  world.  I  used  to  be  invited 
out  to  small  evening  parties,  where,  lonely  as  I 
was — and  at. this  period  having  reached  the 
cynical  stage,  and  being  professedly  scornful  of 
earth's  joys — I  went  very  delightedly.  I  bought 


8 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


kid  gloves,  and  wore  my  collar  turned  down. 
Those  Avere  not  days  when  even  a  musical  as- 
pirant could  venture  upon  a  mustache  in  a  town 
like  ours,  or  I  doubt  not  that  I  would  have 
wrestled  with  Nature  to  extract  by  unknown 
philters  and  essences  the  precious  ornament 
from  her  gift.  Of  course  I  was  a  good  deal 
vain  of  my  voice  and  my  personal  appearance. 
Kind  Heaven,  which  had  taken  from  me  so  much 
that  was  dear,  had  left  me  youth's  delicious 
consolation — vanity.  Had  I  not  been  such  a 
self-conceited  ass  just  then,  I  must  needs  have 
been  very  unhappy. 

We  used  to  practice — we  did  not  call  it  "re- 
hearsing"— three  or  four  times  a  week  in  the 
choir  of  the  church,  the  organist  being  intrusted 
with  the  keys  for  the  purpose,  "We"  were 
generally  four.  First  was  Miss  Griffin,  the  or- 
ganist, who  could  sometimes  pipe  a  flat  and  fee- 
ble note  of  her  own.  Miss  Griffin  was  a  spin- 
ster fast  falling  into  years — nay,  it  seemed  to 
me  then  quite  stricken  in  years,  although  I  know 
now  that  she  could  not  have  been  far  past  thirty. 
But  she  was  very  old-maidenish  in  appearance, 
with  dull  hair  done  into  old-fashioned  spiral 
ringlets ;  a  sharp-nosed  and  perhaps  frosty,  but 
withal  very  kindly,  little  dowdy.  Next  in  years 
— but  with  such  an  interval! — came  our  bass,  a 
stout  young  fellow,  son  of  a  master  carpenter. 
Then  came  the  tenor,  Emanuel  Temple  Banks ; 
and  last  came  the  soprano,  a  girl  of  German 
parentage  and  birth,  Christina  Braun. 

Christina,  I  should  think,  was  then  just  a  lit- 
tle younger  than  myself.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  a  German  toy-maker,  wrho — half  mechanist, 
half  artist,  whole  dreamer — had  striven  to  make 
and  sell  playthings  of  a  new  kind,  with  a  scien- 
tific, philosophical,  and  moral  purpose  about 
them,  for  the  assthetical  entertainment  and  cul- 
ture of  children.  The  philosophical  toy-maker 
did  not  succeed  in  winning  much  of  the  sympa- 
thy of  our  town  for  his  refined  and  lofty  pur- 
pose. He  failed  altogether,  became  bankrupt, 
gave  up  all  struggle  thenceforward,  and  resigned 
the  conduct  of  existence  into  the  hands  of  his 
daughter,  who  sang  in  churches  and  chapels  and 
elsewhere  for  the  means  of  living. 

I  used  to  think  Christina  a  wonderful  young 
person  because  she  had  been  born  in  Germany 
and  could  speak  German.  She  had  at  this 
time  been  many  years  in  England,  and  must 
have  been  quite  a  child  when  she  left  her  native 
country.  We  used  to  pronounce  her  name  as 
if  it  were  similar  in  sound  with  the  name  of  the 
familiar  substance  sold  in  pork-shops.  Being 
at  this  time  of  my  life  still  rather  shy  so  far  as 
girls  were  concerned,  I  knew  little  or  nothing 
of  Miss  Braun  for  months  and  months,  but  that 
she  had  a  strong  voice  and  fine  eyes,  and  that 
she  had  a  happy  capacity  for  talking  freely 
enough  when  any  one  chose  to  speak,  and  re- 
maining contentedly  silent  Avhen  no  one  did  so 
choose.  She  was  a  remarkable  girl  to  look  at. 
She  had  a  great  fleece  of  fair  hair  thrown  ba<ck 
off  her  forehead,  and  only  kept  up  in  some  way 
or  other  from  falling  about  her  shoulders  and 


waist,  which,  indeed,  it  did  more  than  once  in 
the  choir,  to  the  great  annoyance  and  scandal 
of  Miss  Griffin,  who,  I  think,  by  the  look  that 
came  into  her  eyes,  always  regarded  this  little 
mischance  as  a  pure  piece  of  coquetry.  Chris- 
tina had  beautiful,  deep-shining  eyes,  dark  gray 
in  color — much  darker,  indeed,  than  the  tinge 
of  her  hair  would  have  led  one  to  expect.  She 
had  a  bright  complexion  and  a  rather  large 
mouth,  from  which  issued  when  she  sang  a 
strange  and  almost  startling  voice :  we  used  to 
consider  it  somewhat  coarse.  I  don't  think  I 
thought  her  a  handsome  girl;  I  rather  fancy 
she  seemed  to  me  all  hair  and  eyes.  But  I 
have  hardly  any  distinct  impression  of  our  ear- 
liest meetings,  and  I  positively  can  not  by  any 
effort  of  memory  recall  my  first  sight  of  one 
who  afterward  exercised  such  an  influence  over 
my  life,  and  whom  I  once  so  deeply  loved. 
There  is  no  mystery  about  the  story  I  purpose 
to  tell,  and  I  make  known  at  once  that  every 
thing  in  my  existence  which  is  worth  recording 
is  in  some  way  associated  with  the  memory  of 
Christina  Braun. 

We  four,  then — Miss  Griffin,  our  basso,  Chris- 
tina, and  I — used  to  foregather  in  the  church 
choir  of  evenings ;  and  after  having  practiced  as 
we  considered  long  enough,  would  very  often  con- 
clude by  going  to  Miss  Griffin's  to  tea,  and  there 
compensating  ourselves  with  the  newest  operatic 
pieces  for  our  enforced  devotion  to  sacred  music. 
Miss  Griffin  and  her  mamma  taught  music,  and 
some  of  their  pupils  used  to  help  us  out  occa- 
sionally with  duets,  trios,  choruses,  and  the 
like.  I  remember  nothing  particular  about  the 
mamma,  except  that  she  was  an  odd,  vivacious, 
flighty  little  old  personage,  who  could  speak 
French.  I  don't  know  why  she  considered  it 
proper  always  to  address  Christina  Braun  in 
French,  or  why  she  assumed  that  a  German 
girl  must  necessarily  be  able  to  understand  that 
language.  But  she  always  did  so.  "Eh  bien, 
Christina,  chere  petite"  was  her  usual  greeting; 
and  during  the  course  of  any  conversation,  if  she 
had  occasion  to  address  a  word  to  the  tall  and 
plump  chere  petite,  Mrs.  Griffin  always  lapsed  into 
French,  and  Christina,  with  perfect  docility  and 
gravity,  as  regularly  replied  in  the  same  tongue, 
which  she  seemed  to  speak  with  fluency. 

Sometimes  I  was  the  only  gentleman  among 
all  these  ladies;  and  this,  perhaps,  may  partly 
account  for  the  slight  attention  I  used  to  bestow 
upon  Christina  Braun.  Our  bass  singer  did  not 
always  come  with  us  to  Miss  Griffin's,  and  even 
when  he  did  he  was  not  much  of  a  squire  of  dames 
or  demoiselles.  On  entering  the  little  drawing- 
room — first-floor  front,  over  a  bonnet-shop — he 
usually  laid  his  hat  somewhere  on  the  ground, 
sat  on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  swallowed  his  tea, 
bending  far  over  the  table  for  the  pm-pose,  and 
generally  said  nothing  more  than  "Yes,  miss," 
or  "No,  miss,"  in  answer  to  any  question  ad- 
dressed to  him.  He  was  a  fine-looking  young 
fellow,  tall,  robust, manly;  and,  although  scarce- 
ly older  than  myself,  he  had  his  face  already 
fringed  with  a  luxuriant,  soft,  black  beard,  the 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


possession  of  which  I  secretly  envied  him.  Si- 
lent as  he  was  in  general,  I  could  notice  that 
when  he  got  side  by  side  with  Christina  Braun 
he  could  talk  well  enough  to  her ;  and  almost 
always  whe'n  he  came  to  Miss  Griffin's  I  ob- 
served that  he  took  charge  of  Christina  to  see 
her  to  her  home  on  our  early  breaking  up.  I 
think  I  was  somewhat  amused  at  the  time  by  ob- 
serving this  fact  and  founding  conjectures  on  it. 
The  polite  reader  need  hardly  be  told  that  a 
much  loftier  position  in  society  is  asserted  by  a 
lawyer's  clerk  than  could  possibly  be  claimed 
even  by  the  most  presumptuous  carpenter ;  and 
I  therefore  felt  myself  warranted  in  taking  quite 
a  lordly  and  patronizing  interest  in  the  love- 
making  of  my  humble  acquaintance  ;  for  I  felt 
convinced  that  our  stout  basso  was  in  love,  and 
I  envied  him  that  privilege.  Yes,  more  even 
than  his  beard  did  I  envy  him  his  state  of  mind 
and  heart.  At  this  season  of  my  life  I  had  be- 
gun to  long  to  fall  in  love.  I  envied  every 
young  man  whom  I  saAV  on  Sunday  evening 
with  some  girl  hanging  on  his  arm  or  walking 
with  downcast  eyes  by  his  side.  I  trolled  out 
to  myself  of  nights  the  words  of  "  Sally  in  our 
Alley;"  and  I  envied  the  hero  of  the  ballad, 
for  all  his  harsh  master  and  his  jeering  neigh- 
bors. If  some  woman  would  only  love  me, 
walk  thus  of  Sundays  with  me,  lean  on  my  arm, 
blush  when  I  spoke!  Nay,  if  some  woman 
would  even  reject  my  love,  blight  my  young 
hopes,  crush  me  in  the  bud,  reduce  me  to  de- 
spair !  At  the  stage  of  mental  and  moral  de- 
velopment I  had  then  reached  despair  and  ruin 
seemed  on.  the  whole  a  finer  and  more  enviable 
destiny  than  success  and  joy.  To  live  in  love 
would  be  happy ;  but  to  die  for  love  would  be 
the  lordliest  fate. 

My  life  seemed  safe  enough  so  far  as  love's 
despair  could  threaten  it.  I  had  no  one  to 
love.  I  could  not,  no,  I  could  not  love  Miss 
Griffin,  strove  I  never  so  wildly.  I  feel  well 
assured  she  would  have  accepted  gladly  the 
poorest  tribute  of  homage,  even  if  it  lasted  but 
a  few  short  weeks,  to  cheat  her  into  the  belief 
that  she  had  not  quite  passed  out  of  date,  and 
could  yet  move  at  least  one  heart.  All  our 
literature  and  our  moral  lessons  now  ring  the 
changes  upon  the  nobleness  of  self-sacrifice. 
What  finer  self-sacrifice  could  any  one  make 
than  to  persuade  a  kind  and  true-hearted  old 
maid  of  a  certain  age  that  he  had  really  fallen 
in  love  with  her,  and  brighten  her  life  by  giving 
up  his  own  to  sustain  the  beatifying  delusion  ? 
A  more  pious  fraud  could  not  be  accomplished 
than  to  practice  such  a  generous  piece  of  cheat- 
ing on  such  a  woman  as  poor,  elderly,  warm- 
hearted, loving,  unloved  Miss  Griffin.  I  com- 
mend the  idea  to  some  novelist.  Why  not 
make  a  story  out  of  it  ?  But  I  own  that,  even 
had  the  idea  occurred  to  me  at  the  right  time, 
I  should  not  have  dreamed  of  putting  it  into 
practice ;  and  even  if  I  had  dreamed  of  it,  I 
should  never  have  done  it. 

There  was  none  of  Miss  Griffin's  pupils  who 
could  have  served  as  an  object  for  my  adora- 


tion. They  were  all  in  trowsers  and  short 
frocks;  and  at  that  time  of  my  life  girls  in 
trowsers  were  my  abhorrence. 

When  haply  my  thoughts  sometimes  turned 
to  Christina  Braun,  she  seemed  too  calm  and 
silent,  and  too  fond  of  music.  In  those  days  I 
did  not  much  care  for  any  singing  but  my  own. 
There  are  only  too  many  people  who,  if  they 
would  but  confess  it,  are  in  just  the  same  state 
of  mind — people  who  have,  of  course,  none  of 
the  true  artist's  love  of  music,  as,  honestly,  I 
never  had.  People  like  us  in  that  way  often 
delight  in  our  own  singing,  if  we  can  sing,  not 
out  of  mere  self-conceit  and  egotism,  but  because 
to  us  that  music  which  our  own  voices  give  out 
is  the  fullest  expression,  the  strongest  invoca- 
tion, of  feeling  and  association.  Many  tenors 
of  the  richest  tone,  and  sopranos  thrilling  up  to 
the  ceiling,  have  I  heard  without  feeling  one 
throb  of  the  emotion  which  used  to  swell  with- 
in me  long  ago  as  I  sang  old  church-hymns  or 
new  sentimental  ballads  of  love,  longing,  and 
despair  for  my  own  delight,  and  quite  alone. 
But  it  was  easy  enough  even  for  me  then  to  see 
that  Christina  Braun  loved  music  for  its  own 
sake,  and,  like  most  persons  who  do  thus  appre- 
ciate and  love  it,  she  seemed,  to  ordinary  ob- 
servers, to  care  about  little  else. 

Apart  from  all  this,  however,  I  had  arranged 
in  my  own  mind  that  Christina  Braun  and  the 
carpenter's  son  were  what  we  used  to  call 
"sweet-hearts." 

After  some  time  I  began  to  observe  that 
Christina  ceased  to  make  one  in  our  mild  gath- 
erings in  Miss  Griffin's  drawing-room.  Indeed 
the  latter  lady  and  I  sometimes  had  tea  tete-a- 
tete — or  nearly  so,  her  mother  only  flitting  flight- 
ily  in  and  out — and  it  was  dull  entertainment 
for  both  parties.  I  would  gladly  have  evaded 
all  such  soirees,  but  that  I  was  ashamed  or  un- 
\villing  to  desert  poor  Miss  Griffin,  and  perhaps 
did  not  always  know  what  to  do  with  myself 
or  where  else  to  go.  The  time  for  sitting  alone 
in  contented  gloom,  and  smoking  a  pipe  long 
evenings  through,  had  not  nearly  con*ie  as  yet. 

Sometimes  a  fearful  thought  crossed  my  mind. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  Christina  imagined 
Miss  Griffin  and  I  were  lovers,  and  liked  to  be 
left  alone  ?  I  tried  to  shut  out  this  alarming 
idea.  I  vowed  not  to  go  any  more  to  a  tete-a- 
tete  tea ;  I  even  attempted  awkwardly  to  pay  a 
mild  attention  to  Christina  herself  in  the  hope 
of  thus  repelling  suspicion.  I  invited  her  to 
come  with  me  to  a  concert  somewhere — we  had 
not  the  rules  of  Belgravia  or  even  Bloomsbury 
to  govern  our  social  relationships  there — but 
Christina  refused  in  so  decided  a  tone  as  to 
make  my  doubts  a  dead  certainty.  I  began  to 
feel  convinced  that  I  had  guessed  but  too  well. 
Christina  must  suppose  me  deeply  in  love  with 
Miss  Griffin — perhaps  solemnly  engaged  to  her 
— to  Miss  Griifin,  whose  age  was  so  undeniable, 
and  who  carried  the  stigma  of  old  maid  brand- 
ed on  her  very  skirts  and  ankles ! 

One  evening  we  three — we  three ! — walked 
home  together,  as  usual,  but  were  unusually 


10 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


dull  and  silent.  Christina  declined  entering 
when  we  arrived  at  Miss  Griffin's  door— this 
time  indeed  the  invitation  being  very  faintly 
pressed.  I  was  plucking  up  heart  of  grace  to 
make  my  excuses  too,  when  Miss  Griffin  cut  me 
short  by  a  look  of  portentous  mystery,  and  the 
words,  "You  really  must  come  in,  Mr.  Banks  ; 
I  want  to  speak  to  you" — words  which,  how- 
ever, were  not  spoken  until  just  after  Christina 
had  nodded  her  head  to  us  and  gone  on  her 
way. 

I  followed  Miss  Griffin  up  stairs  in  perhaps 
something  like  an  agitated  condition  of  mind. 
I  did  not  quite  know  whether  under  certain 
circumstances  strong-minded  ladies  not  young 
did  not  think  it  allowable  to  interrogate  young 
men  touching  the  nature  of  their  intentions. 

Miss  Griffin  was  any  thing  but  a  strong-mind- 
ed woman,  and  just  now  did  not  seem  to  have 
been  thinking  about  me  at  all.  She  burst  out 
with  her  communication  all  at  once. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Banks,  I  must  send  Christina 
Braun"  (pronounced,  as  I  have  said  before, 
^Brawn")  "out  of  the  choir.  She  must  not 
sing  with  us  any  more." 

Did  I  feel  relieved  to  hear  that  the  question 
was  of  Christina's  rejection,  and  not  of  my  ac- 
ceptance? Perhaps  so.  But  I  certainly  felt 
much  surprised. 

"What  on  earth  has  she  been  doing?" 
"  I  am  so  sorry  to  hear  it ;  indeed,  it's  quite 
put  me  out;  you  can't  think  how  much." 
"Yes;  but  what  is  it?" 
"I  am  afraid  she  is  not  a  good  girl.     She 
sings  every  night  at  a  singing-house !" 
"  At  a  singing-house  ?" 
"Yes;   a  common  low  singing- house,  Mr. 
Banks — and  I  don't  see  what  there  is  to  laugh 
at—a  horrid  place,  where  soldiers  and  sailors 
and  I  don't  know  what — all  sorts  of  low  people, 
.  in  fact— go  in  and  drink  and  listen  to  her.     It's 
been  all  found  out ;  and  Mr.  Thirlwall  (the  cler- 
gyman) says  he  can't  have  a  girl  in  the  choir 
who  sings  for  soldiers  and  sailors  in  a  common 
drinking-house.    I  don't  know  what  to  do  about 
it ;  and  I  declare  it  has  put  me  in  such  a  way, 
you  can't  think.     Perhaps  she  is  not  so  bad  ; 
and  then  it's  all  very  well  for  Mr.  Thirlwall  to 
talk,  but,  my  goodness !  who  is  to  fill  her  place, 
with  such  a  voice  as  she  has,  and  such  an  ear  for 
music  ?     But  I  can't  keep  her  unless  she  prom- 
ises never  to  go  there  any  more." 

"Then  you  have  not  spoken  to  her  yet  about 
it?"' 

"No,  not  yet.  I  thought  I  would  ask  you 
something  about  it  first.  I  thought  perhaps 
you  could  advise  me ;  you,  who  are  a  man  of 
business  and  know  something  about  the  world." 
"Well,  I  am  sure  I  don't  see  much  harm  in 
the  whole  affair,  and  I  think  Mr.  Thirlwall  is 
a  venerable  goose.  Miss  Braun  seems  a  very 
quiet,  respectable  sort  of  girl"  (I  thought  of 
the  carpenter's  love-suit,  and  felt  quite  a  lord- 
ly spirit  of  patronizing  pity),  "and  then  what 
can  she  do  if  she's  very  poor  and  has  no  other 
way  of  living  ?  The  reverend  man  docs  not 


expect  her  to  live  on  fifteen  pounds  a  year,  paid 
in  rather  irregular  installments  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  is  all  quite  true ;  and  indeed  it  is 
just  what  I  said  myself  to  Mr.  Thirlwall— only 
of  course  I  put  it  more  politely— and  he  says  it 
is  true  too ;  for  he's  a  just  man,  Mr.  Banks 
though  you  always  seem  inclined  to  laugh  at 
him.  But  what  can  he  do?  He  has  been 
preaching  from  the  pulpit  time  after  time 
against  those  very  singing -houses,  and  how 
can  he  have  people  looking  up  from  their  seats 
in  the  church,  and  perhaps  some  of  them  rec- 
ognizing a  singer  from  such  a  place  among  the 
faces  in  our  choir?  You  know  yourself  that 
would  never  do." 

It  occurred  to  me  at  the  moment  that  per- 
haps the  worshiper  who  visited  the  wicked 
singing -house,  and  was  thereby  enabled  to 
recognize  one  of  its  performers,  would  have 
scarcely  a  clear  right  to  object  to  the  chorister 
who  sang  there.  But  I  saw  no  use  in  urging 
this  point  to  a  logical  conclusion,  and  merely 
suggested  that  perhaps  the  place  was  not  so 
dreadfully  bad  after  all. 

"That  is  what  I  was  just  thinking  of.  I 
should  really  like  to  know  something  of  it.  It 
would  never  do  to  give  up  the  poor  girl  without 
knowing  whether  there  is  any  harm  in  what  she 
is  doing.  I  actually  thought  of  going  there  my- 
self; I  did,  really." 

"Oh,  you  can't  go,  that  is  quite  out  of  the 
question  ;  but  if  you  like  I'll  go,  and  bring  you 
a  faithful  report." 

"  That  is  what  I  should  like  of  all  things.  I 
can  depend  upon  your  judgment.  .And  at  all 
events  one  ought  to  know  something  about  the 
right  and  wrong  of  the  affair.  I  believe  in  law, 
Mr.  Banks,  a  person  is  innocent  until  you  can 
prove  her  guilty." 

"That  is  considered  one  of  the  great  princi- 
ples of  British  law,  Miss  Griffin." 

"  Yes  ;  and  I  think  it's  very  proper  too ;  and 
I  only  wish  people  would  do  the  same  in  every 
thing  else  as  well  as  law." 

It  was  settled,  then,  that  I  was  to  visit  and 
report  on  the  obnoxious  singing-place.  I  had 
heard  of  it  once  or  twice  before ;  and  of  sundry 
of  its  predecessors  which  had  all  in  succession 
withered  and  disappeared.  Up  to  this  time  I 
had  never  been  out  of  my  native  town,  and  of 
course  had  never  been  in  a  singing -saloon. 
Our  town  was  an  unspeakably  dull  spot.  At 
this  time  it  was  not  even  visited  by  a  railway, 
and  it  depended  for  its  sole  excitement  upon 
the  changing  of  a  regiment  in  the  barracks  or 
the  occasional  visit  of  a  war-frigate  to  the  har- 
bor. O\ving  to  the  social  and  topographical  pe- 
culiarities I  have  already  mentioned  which  di- 
vided us,  like  all  Gaul  in  Cesar's  day,  into  three 
parts,  any  sort  of  amusement  which  might  be 
devised  for  the  gratification  of  the  floating  pop- 
ulation in  the  lower  plateau,  was  not  likely  to 
excite  either  interest  or  alarm  in  the  higher  re- 
gions. Our  middle  class  were  little  given  to 
revelry.  Every  window  in  their  quarter  was 
duly  shuttered  and  barred  by  eleven  o'clock. 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


11 


and  their  warmest  stimulant  was  a  controver- 
sial sermon.  But  of  late  there  had  unques- 
tionably been  some  stir  created  by  the  success- 
ful establishment,  after  many  failures,  of  a  fa- 
mous singing-saloon,  modeled  after  the  fashion 
of  metropolitan  dissipation.  Not  a  noisy,  harm- 
less "free-and-easy,"  where  Snug  the  joiner  and 
Quince  the  carpenter  might  smoke  their  pipes 
and  be  knocked  down  in  turn  for  their  favor- 
ite and  special  song ;  where  Bottom  the  weav- 
er might  deliver  his  choicest  sentiment,  and 
Starveling  the  tailor  might  have  the  formal 
permission  of  his  wife  to  remain  half  an  hour 
later  on  the  Saturday  night.  This  was  not  the 
sort  of  thing  that  now  invaded  us.  It  was  a 
place  where  professional  singers — women  too, 
look  you,  nearly  as  bad  as  dancers,  not  to  say 
actresses— came  and  sat  on  a  platform  and  sang 
for  money.  This  was  then  a  dreadful  innova- 
tion. The  singing -saloon  itself  is  now  well- 
nigh  obsolete.  The  rising  generation  hardly 
knows  what  it  was  like.  The  music-hall  with 
its  plate-glass,  its  paintings,  its  private  boxes, 
its  concerted  music,  and  its  Champagne,  has 
banished  it ;  and  the  audacious  novelty  of  my 
young  days  is  a  forgotten,  fogyish  old  institu- 
tion now.  But  this  particular  place  of  which 
I  speak  was  really  creating  something  like  a 
stir  among  our  quiet  and  respectable  burgesses 
just  then.  It  was  established  immediately  in- 
side the  frontier  line  of  our  Alsatia ;  and  it  is 
certain  that  some  of  our  fathers  of  families 
had  been  to  visit  it,  and  had  talked  with  quite 
a  dangerous  slyness  of  its  attractions,  and  had 
made  up  parties  with  some  of  their  friends  to 
go  and  see  it  again.  All  this  created  naturally 
a  considerable  fluttering  of  angry  petticoats  in 
domestic  circles,  and  brought  severe  and  direct 
condemnation  from  offended  pulpits.  And  so 
I  had  hedxd  of  the  place  in  question,  and  had 
even  been  making  up  my  mind  to  visit  it  be- 
fore chance  sent  me  there  as  the  special  com- 
missioner of  Miss  Griffin. 

The  following  night  I  went  alone,  and  had 
no  difficulty  in  finding  the  place.  Indeed, 
when  you  began  to  descend  from  the  old  square, 
which  was  the  last  strong-hold  of  respectability 
and  middle  class,  down  a  steep  street  with  steps 
breaking  its  precipitate  fall,  a  street  that  was 
the  main  artery  of  the  lower  town,  you  came 
almost  at  once  upon  the  obnoxious  saloon.  It 
was  in  a  large  public  house,  occupying  a  cor- 
ner where  a  cross-street  ran  off,  and  showing, 
like  Janus,  a  double  front.  The  place  looked 
cheery  enough  from  the  outside.  The  night 
was  chill  and  Avet ;  and  the  bright  crimson  cur- 
tains draping  the  windows  of  the  upper  room 
where  the  musical  performances  were  going  on, 
tempted  one  with  visions  of  ineffable  comfort 
and  warmth  out  of  the  wintry  plash  and  drizzle 
of  the  sodden  streets.  I  went  up  stairs.  There 
was  no  payment  at  the  doors,  the  musical  en- 
tertainment being  supported  in  the  recognized 
style  by  indirect  taxation  levied  upon  the  "or- 
ders." I  entered  the  Circean  bower.  It  was 
but  a  small  and  poor  imitation  of  a  Strand  or 


Covent  Garden  Cave  of  Harmony,  but  as  it  had 
looking-glasses,  crimson  curtains,  velvet  cush- 
ions, a  platform  with  foot-lights,  and  an  orches- 
tra, it  seemed  splendid  enough  in  my  confused 
provincial  eyes.  I  gave  an  order  for  something 
in  a  rather  ineffectual  attempt  at  a  careless  tone, 
and  dropped  into  the  first  available  seat.  There 
was  rather  a  numerous  audience — including, 
however,  only  one  or  two  sailors  and  no  sol- 
diers. Most  of  the  company  seemed  to  me  to 
be  smart  young  artisans,  mingled  with  elderly 
tradesmen  of  the  unpretentious  class ;  and  there 
were  a  few  young  assistants  from  shops,  who 
looked  quite  swellish  in  their  well-made  clothes 
and  gloves.  No  ladies  were  there ;  Miss  Grif- 
fin would  have  presented  herself  in  vain.  Most 
of  the  company  were  smoking,  by  which  I  was 
innocently  surprised  to  find  that  the  singers 
were  not  in  the  least  disconcerted.  Of  the 
"  audience"  a  very  few  were  actually  listening 
to  the  music  ;  the  greater  number  were  chatting 
unconcernedly  round  their  little  tables ;  one  or 
two  were  asleep.  I  had,  however,  listened  with 
the  gravest  appearance  of  interest  to  a  senti- 
mental and  a  comic  song  before  I  came  to  my- 
self sufficiently  to  observe  even  this  much  of 
the  aspect  of  the  place. 

When  I  said  there  were  no  women  present 
I  meant,  of  course,  among  the  audience.  For 
when  I  began  to  look  collectedly  around  me  I 
saw  that  there  were  girls  on  the  platform,  and 
that  among  them  was  Christina  Braun.  She 
was  dressed  in  white — poor  white  muslin  only ; 
but  she  seemed  to  my  eyes  to  be  wearing  a  mag- 
nificent costume.  Her  arms  and  shoulders 
were  bare,  and  were  both  white  and  plump, 
and  her  fleece  of  light  hair  fell  around  her. 
She  presently  came  on  to  sing,  and  she  seem- 
ed to  be  a  favorite,  for  she  was  welcomed  by 
a  burst  of  applause,  and  most  of  the  company 
stopped  their  talkf  while  some  demanded  silence 
by  tapping  their  pipe-bowls  on  the  table.  Chris- 
tina sang  in  clear  and  strong  tones  some  ballad 
— not  at  all  a  Circean  strain,  but  some  good 
moral-purpose  song  about  universal  brother- 
hood and  being  kind  to  our  neighbors.  She 
sang  it  with  sweetness  and  force,  but  with  hardly 
any  indication  of  feeling,  certainly  with  no  gleam 
of  emotion  perceptible  in  her  eyes.  Being,  how- 
ever, vehemently  encored,  she  chose,  as  seem- 
ed to  be  expected,  a  totally  different  kind  of 
song.  It  was  what  we  used  to  call  a  "nigger 
melody" — a  sort  of  novelty  then,  with  a  refrain 
about  courting  down  in  Tennessee,  or  Alabama, 
or  some  other  such  place. 

I  scarcely  knew  what  it  was  all  about ;  but 
I  soon  knew  that  I  had  never  heard  such  spirit, 
such  archness,  such  wild  wayward  humor,  such 
occasional  ebullitions  of  tender  thrilling  emotion 
conveyed  in  song  before.  No,  never !  Night 
after  night  had  I  heard  this  girl  sing  her  devo- 
tional hymns  in  the  clearest  tones,  vacant  of 
any  emotion  whatever ;  but  now,  as  she  sang 
some  trumpery  little  serio-comic  love-song,  her 
dark  gray  eyes  gleamed  and  filled  with  light ; 
under  her  shadowy  long  lashes  the  eyes  some- 


12 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


times  looked  so  dark  and  deep  as  to  seem  in 
startling  contrast  with  her  bright  fair  hair ;  her 
voice  swelled,  soared,  sank,  shaded  itself  away 
into  an  infinite  variety  of  expression ;  she  gave 
life  and  speech  to  the  very  rattle  of  her  banjo  ; 
she  made  the  ballad  utter  a  thousand  emotions 
which  were  no  more  in  the  words  she  sang  than 
in  the  instrument  she  struck,  or  the  smoky,  beery 
crowd,  whose  glasses  jingled  with  their  noisy  and 
honest  acclamations.     What  a  soul  of  feeling, 
what    a  capacity — deep,  boundless,  daring— a 
capacity  for  love  and  triumph,  and  passion  and 
sorrow — spoke  in  the  tones  of  that  voice  and 
the  flash  of  that  eye !     For  me,  I  felt  partly  as 
I  used  to  feel  when  sitting  alone  and  singing, 
only  with  how  much  of  a  difference !      With 
what  a  change  from  dreamy,  vague,  and  fluctu- 
ating emotions,  idly  rolling  in  like  the  waves  on 
the  windless  shore,  and  the  warm,  tumultuous, 
passionate  rush  of  the  new  tide  of  love  and 
youth  and  manhood  breaking  in  upon  my  life 
at  last !     I  began  life,  I  began  love,  with  the 
hearing  of  that  song  !     I  dare  say  it  was  poor, 
coarse,  untutored  singing  ;  untrained,  and  even 
in  some  sense  uncouth,  it  must  have  been; 
commonplace  it   certainly  was  not,     I  know 
that  I  heard  the  singer  unnumbered  times  in 
the  prime  of  her  years  and  her  triumph ;  and  I 
do  not  believe  I  ever  recognized  her  genius 
more  clearly  than  when  I  heard  her  sing  that 
poor  little  ballad  in  the  public  house  of  the  old 
sea-port.     My  rapture  must  upon  that  occasion 
find  some  outlet,  and  I  therefore  made  instant 
acquaintance  with  a  dull  and  elderly  man  near 
me :  he  seemed  to  me,  I  don't  know  why,  to 
look  like  a  saddler. 

"  Splendid  !"  I  exclaimed,  addressing  him. 
"Yes,  pretty  tidy,"  rejoined  the  dull  man; 
and  he  looked  round  for  the  waiter  and  knocked 
his  empty  glass  against  the  table— a  signal  for 
a  refilling. 

"  I  know  her,"  I  added,  confidentially. 
"Know  who?"  asked  the  dull  man. 
"Her — the  singer." 

"Ah  !"  He  did  not  seem  to  care  whether  I 
knew  her  or  not. 

^ "  She's  a  foreigner, "  I  added,  especially  proud 
of  knowing  a  foreigner. 

"  Ah !  I  never  liked  the  French — I  don't  be- 
lieve in  'em.  By  what  I  can  make  out  they 
ain't  good  for  much." 

;<But  she's  not  French— she's  German." 
"Don't  like  Germans,  they're  a  dirty  set. 
They  eat  candles,  I'm  told." 

This  irrelevant  and  detestable  observation  so 
utterly  disgusted  me  that  I  withdrew  at  once 
from  the  conversation. 

I  should  much  have  liked  to  wait  for  the  close 
of  the  entertainment  and  to  speak  to  Christina; 


but  I  feared  she  might  suppose  I  had  come  as  a 
spy  or  tell-tale,  so  I  slunk  very  much  indeed  as 
if  I  were  a  spy  or  tell-tale  from  my  seat,  which 
was  near  the  door,  and  went  down  stairs.  I  did 
not  gain  much  by  my  caution  and  my  flight,  for, 
descending  rapidly,  I  ran  against  some  one  com- 
ing as  rapidly  up,  and  I  recognized  my  friend 


the  basso,  the  bearded  young  carpenter.  We 
saluted  each  other,  but  he  did  not  seem  particu- 
larly glad  to  see  me,  and  he  ran  past  .without 
staying  to  speak  a  word.  I  wished  I  had  not 
met  him,  for  I  feared  that  in  the  too-probable 
event  of  poor  Christina's  dismissal  he  might  re- 
gard me  and  report  me  as  a  spy,  and  I  had  an 
instinctive  knowledge  that  he  had  come  to  see 
her  home ;  and  I  envied  him — nay,  already  I 
almost  hated  him. 

Drizzling  and  dismal  as  the  black  skies  were, 
sloppy  and  slushy  as  the  streets  were,  I  did  not 
hurry  home.  On  the  contrary,  I  turned  delib- 
erately away  from  home,  and  straggled,  like  the 
town,  down  hill  to  the  water.  From  the  door  I 
had  just  quitted  I  could  hear  the  creaking  of  the 
spars  of  ships  that  tossed  and  dragged  at  their 
anchors,  the  whistling  of  the  sullen  wind  through 
their  cordage,  the  heavy  surge  of  the  waves 
along  their  sides.  A  few  strides  down  an  oozy 
lane  and  I  could  see  the  lights  at  mast-heads, 
and  even  discern  through  the  mist  and  dark- 
ness the  white  tops  of  the  rushing  waves.  I 
made  my  way,  stumbling  among  upturned  boats 
and  anchors  and  chains,  down  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  water.  The  town  was  not  well-lighted 
any  where ;  toward  the  harbor  its  darkness  grew 
Cimmerian.  The  inhabitants  had  all  that  mys- 
terious objection  to  seeing  their  seaward  way  at 
night  which  used  to  be  so  common  a  character- 
istic of  people  living  in  sea-port  towns  in  the 
years  when  French  treaties  were  not.  Indeed, 
many  of  our  people  would  have  abolished  moon- 
ight  if  they  could,  although  these  very  same 
Dersons  were  strangely  given  to  lurking  about 
he  shore  and  staring  seaward  at  extraordinary 
hours  of  the  night.  This  night,  however,  no 
stealthy  figure  peered  from  the  strand :  I  had 
it  all  to  myself,  and  I  exulted  in  being  alone. 

Born  as  I  was  within  sound  of  the  waves,  it 
has  always  seemed  to  me  that  in  any  hour  of 
deep  emotion  I  ought  to  rush  to  the  sea-side 
and  make  the  noisy  water  my  confidant.  This 
night  I  felt  that  I  must  find  the  shore,  and  re- 
lieve my  new-born  passion  by  mingling  its  ut- 
terances with  the  roar  of  the  waters.  Alone  on 
that  strand  what  strange  fooleries  I  enacted ! 
I  stamped  up  and  down  the  shore,  I  sang  wild 
snatches  of  Christina's  song,  I  shouted  mad 
fragments  of  incoherent  melody  and  semi-artic- 
ulate words  of  passion  and  love.  I  was  mad, 
and  I  was  happy ;  this  at  last  was  living !  All 
the  delight  that  an  explorer  may  find  when  he 
first  breaks  into  a  new  sea — that  a  Bedouin 
may  feel  when  he  first  mounts  an  untamed 
horse — I  felt,  now  that  I  knew  myself  to  be 
tossing  at  last  on  the  waves  of  passionate  love. 
Lucky  for  me  that  I  was  alone,  and  that  the 
night  was  so  dark.  Any  one  seeing  my  ges- 
tures, hearing  my  cries,  must  have  taken  me 
for  a  lunatic.  I  waited  on  the  strand  until  my 
emotions  had  worked  off  their  first  vehemence ; 
perhaps  I  waited  too  until  I  thought  the  enter- 
tainment at  the  singing-saloon  must  be  nearly 
over.  Then  I  went  back  to  the  street  whence 
I  had  come,  and  watched  the  people  coming  out. 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


13 


After  the  last  of  the  audience  had  melted  away 
came  out  a  cluster  of  the  performers ;  among 
them  I  could  clearly  enough  distinguish  the  fig- 
ure of  Christina— I  had  keen  eyes  for  her  form 
now — and  my  friend  the  basso  was  escorting 
her  home.  A  strange,  fierce  pang  shot  through 
me.  I  had  learned  to  feel  two  new  passions  in 
a  few  short  hours — love  and  jealousy. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  SEA-FIGHT. 

I  DID  not  go  near  Miss  Griifin  next  day.  I 
postponed  making  any  report  of  my  previous 
night's  visitation.  What  report  could  I  make 
but  that  I  had  been  present  at  a  very  dull  and 
harmless  entertainment  ?  unless  I  chose  to  add 
the  truth— that  I  had  come  away  madly  in  love 
with  the  eyes  and  the  voice  of  a  girl  whom  I 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  seeing  three  or  four 
times  a  week  for  months  and  months,  and  about 
whom  I  never  before  cared  a  straw.  Mine  was 
certainly  not  love  at  first  sight,  but  it  had  all 
the  suddenness  and  unreasoning  fierceness  of 
that  romantic  form  of  the  passion.  I  have  not 
read  in  books  much  about  such  a  love  as  mine, 
which  neither  flamed  out  at  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  object,  nor- grew  up  with  the  gradual  devel- 
opment of  intimacy  and  appreciation.  I  was 
as  one  who  walks  in  the  sun  of  some  tropical 
climate  uninjured  and  unheeding  for  days,  and 
whom  suddenly,  in  some  unexpecting  moment, 
a  flash,  sharp  as  the  cleave  of  a  sabre,  strikes 
and  cuts  down.  Yes,  my  love  was  like  a  sun- 
stroke. I  do  not  know  how  to  describe  it  bet- 
ter. 


Of  course  I  went  again  to  the  music-house ; 
I  went  the  next  night.  The  company  was  of 
the  same  general  character ;  the  singers  were 
the  same.  The  moment  I  entered  I  saw  that 
Christina's  eyes  turned  on  me,  and  I  blushed 
like  a  great  girl.  Some  male  singer  came  on 
with  his  dreary  comic  song,  and  she  disappeared 
from  the  platform.  Had  she  gone  for  the  night  ? 
What  a  cruel  disappointment!  I  stared  dis- 
consolate and  confounded  into  my  beer-glass, 
and  was  positively  pitying  myself  for  my  priva- 
tion, when  one  of  the  waiters,  who  were  per- 
petually buzzing  about  the  tables  to  remind 
any  laggard  guests  of  the  necessity  of  renew- 
ing their  orders,  came  up  to  me,  and  leaning 
over  my  shoulder,  said, 

"Lady  wants  to  speak  to  you,  Sir." 
I  started. 

' '  Lady !  —what  lady  ?" 
"Profesh'nal  lady,  Sir.     Behind  the  plat- 
form, Sir.     This  way,  please." 

I  followed  him.  I  was  crimson  all  over,  and 
did  not  venture  to  look  up,  fearing  that  the 
eyes  of  a  whole  curious  company  must  be  fixed 
on  me.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  don't  suppose 
any  body  in  the  room  took  the  slightest  notice 
I  was  trembling  with  anxiety,  hope,  fear,  sur 
prise,  excitement  of  the  most  complicated  kind 


The  waiter  drew  aside  a  curtain  for  me,  and  I 
entered  a  small  sanded  room,  or  rather  a  mere 
space,  behind  the  platform ;  and  I  saw  Chris- 
tina there  alone.     She  had  her  head  turned 
away  when  I  came  in ;  at  the  sound  of  my  en- 
trance she  looked  quickly  round,  and  there  was 
an  angry  light  in  her  deep  gray  eyes. 
Her  first  words  utterly  abashed  me. 
"Why  do  you  come  here?"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  purposely  kept  low,  and  with  the  foreign  • 
accent  more  strongly  perceptible  than  usual, 
owing  to  the  kind  of  excitement  under  which 
she  spoke.     "  Why  do  you  come  here  to  watch 
me  and  tell  bad  of  me  ?    Have  I  ever  done  you 
any  harm  ?" 

"Oh,  Christina— Miss  Braun,  I  mean— how 
can  you  say  such  a  thing  ?"  and  I  broke  down 
in  mere  stammering. 

"Have  you  not  come  here  to  watch  me — to 
spy  on  me  ?" 

"No.  I  have  not,  indeed." 
"  It's  a  lie !"  she  exclaimed,  so  loudly  that  I 
involuntarily  glanced  in  the  direction  of  the 
audience,  fearing  the  words  must  have  been 
heard.  "  It's  an  untruth.  I  know  you  were 
sent  here." 

"I  was  not  sent  here.     Miss  Griffin  asked 
me  to  come  here ;  and — " 
"And  yon  came!" 

She  made  a  triumphant  gesture  expressive 
of  conviction  and  scorn.  I  certainly  felt  not 
unlike  a  detected  spy  ;  and  I  looked,  no  doubt, 
very  foolish. 

"Yes,  I  came;  but  I  did  not  come  to— to 
find  out  any  thing  bad,  or  to  do  you  harm.  I 
came  to  do  you  good ;  and  Miss  Griffin  only 
wanted  to  do  you  good." 

"Thank  you  both."  She  laid  a  malicious 
emphasis  on  the  word  "both."  "I  am  much 
obliged  to  you  both.  Heart-felt  thanks  to  you 
both.  But  I  don't  want  any  one  to  try  to  do 
me  good." 

I  wished  to  be  your  friend." 
I  have  not  many  friends — I  am  poor  and 
miserable ;  and  I  have  an  old  man  to  support 
whom  I  love  and  whom  I  would  die  for ;  and 
you  come  and  find  out  that  I  am  trying  to  make 
a  living,  and  without  wrong  to  any  one,  or  my- 
self, or  God,  and  you  tell  of  me  at  the  church. 
Go  away ;  it  is  not  like  a  man.  It  is  not  like 
an  Englishman." 

"But  I  swear  to  you,  Miss  Braun,  that  you 
are  wrong  and  unjust.  You  don't  know  me, 
or  you  never  would  speak  as  you  have  done.  I 
am  utterly  incapable  of  the  wretched  meanness 
you  think  me  guilty  of.  I  wish  I  could  say  all 
I  feel,  but  I  can't— I  can't ;  and  I  dare  ^say  I 
look  to  you  like  a  convicted  spy,  or  an  idiot,  or 
something  equally  abominable." 

'You  came  last  night  to  see  if  I  was  here?" 
'I  did." 

So !     You  saw  that  I  was  here  ?" 
I  did." 

Then  was  that  not  enough  ?    Why  did  you 
come  again  to  night  ?" 

"I  came  to  hear  you  sing !     Heaven  knows 


H 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


I  came  for  that  and  nothing  else.  It— it  de 
lights  me.  I  could  not  stay  away.  I  wi 
come  again  and  again,  unless  you  bid  me  no, 
But  do  not  bid  me  not  to  come,  for  I  woul 
rather  be  dead  than  not  hear  you  sing. " 

"  Hush,"  she  said,  in  a  low  and  gentle  tone 
"  they  outside  may  hear  us."  As  I  found  cour 
age  to  look  up,  I  saw  that  her  lips  were  trem 
bling  and  that  her  cheeks  were  crimsoned.  Ha< 
•my  burst  of  sudden  eloquence  not  been  inter 
rtipted,  it  would  infallibly  have  ended  with  a 
fervent  declaration  of  love  then  and  there.  She 
imposed  silence  on  me  by  a  gesture  which  had 
I  thought,  as  much  entreaty  as  command  in  it. 
and  then  said,  "I  must  go;  it  is  my  time  tc 
sing.  But  I  believe  you  ;  and  I  was  wrong  and 
angry.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  a  pooi 
girl,  trying  to  live  honestly,  and  watched  and  sus- 
pected. I  beg  you  for  pardon.  Good-night.' 
She  disappeared ;  and  I  heard  her  voice  in  t 
moment  thrilling  from  the  platform.  I,  too, 
came  in  front  again,  and  found  my  way  back 
to  the  seat  I  had  left. 

I  would  have  sat  the  whole  entertainment 
out,  but  that  I  hated  the  idea  of  meeting  the 
young  carpenter  and  seeing  him  give  his  arm 
to  Christina.  I  waited  and  waited,  every  mo- 
ment dreading  to  see  him  make  his  appearance. 
Often  as  I  turned  toward  the  platform,  her  eyes 
never  met  mine.  At  last  I  made  up  my  mind 
and  left  the  room.  Luck  was  against  me ;  at 
the  door  below  I  met  my  rival.  This  time  he 
did  not  pass  me  with  a  salute.  He  looked 
fiercely  at  me,  and  his  lips  quivered  with  ex- 
citement. 

"What  d'ye  come  here  for?"  he  asked. 
"  What's  that  to  you  ?"  was  my  school-boyish 
reply.     I  was  not  in  years  much  beyond  the 
school-boy  age. 

"It's  this  to  me— look  here,  it's  this:  you 
come  here  to  watch  that  girl,  and  spy  upon  her, 
and  fetch  and  carry  stories  about  her,  to  get 
her  dismissed  from  the  choir ;  I  dare  say  that's 
why  you  come  here." 

"  You  are  a  liar !"  was  my  fierce  reply — "  an 
impertinent  liar!" 

He  turned  pale ;  but  not  at  all  with  fear. 
"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  asked,   "that 
you've  not  been  sent  here  as  a  spy  on  her  ?" 

"  I  mean  to  say  nothing  to  you,  or  any  fellow 
like  you,  except  just  what  I  have  said." 

"Yes,  you  can  talk  in  that  way  here,"  he 
said,  significantly;  "but  would  you  say  so  any 
where  else  ?" 

"Any  where  you  like ;  and  the  sooner  the 
better. "  My  pent-up  feelings  sought  any  man- 
ner of  outburst  as  a  relief. 
"  Come  this  way,  then." 
My  rival  led  the  way  down  the  oozy,  plashy 
lane  I  have  already  described  to  the  strand. 
It  was  nearly  as  dark  as  the  night  before:  it 
was  quite  as  lonely.  The  few  twinkling  lights 
at  the  far  mast-heads  of  anchored  vessels  alone 
broke  the  gloom.  Unless  we  stood  pretty  close 
together  we  could  hardly  see  each  other,  and 
my  foe  strode  on  so  impatiently  that  I  some- 


times lost  sight  of  him  altogether  for  a  moment 
and  i  was  once  or  twice  almost  under  the  ne- 
cessity of  having  to  raise  an  undignified  halloo 
How  he  managed  to  get  on  without  stumbling 
-  can  not  imagine;  every  other  moment  my 
feet  were  tripping  over  huge  stones  or  coils  of 
chain,  and  once  I  literally  fell  forward  right 
over  an  upturned  boat.  I  began  to  think  the 
whole  proceeding  rather  an  absurd  one ;  but  I 
had  been  grievously  insulted,  and  although  now 
a  mimon  of  the  law,  professionally  bound,  one 
would  think,  to  abstain  from  deeds  of  violence 
yet  it  must  be  remembered  that  I  was  the  son 
>f  a  boat-builder  who  had  been  a  sailor  in  his 
day,  and  that  not  many  months  ago  I  was  a 
school-boy.  Yet  I  much  wished  the  duel  to 
come  oft'  quickly,  and  while  my  blood  was  tip ; 
'or  I  felt  the  ridiculous  features  of  the  business 
Becoming  every  moment  more  impressive,  and 
I  began  to  think  that  an  attorney's  clerk  box- 
ng  with  a  carpenter— a  poetic  and  musical 
,-oung  lover  fighting  a  vulgar  rival  with  fists— 
vould  be  outrageously  absurd,  unpicttiresque, 
>nd  unheroic. 

At  last  my  pertinacious  and  thrice-accursed 
ormentor  came  to  a  pause  on  a  clear  spot  or 
vhat  seemed  clear. 

"Now  then,"  he  said,  "there's  nobody  here. 
Vhat  have  you  got  to  say  ?  •  Are  you  not  a  spy 
,nd  a  sneak?" 

This  was  too  much ;  and  as  I  had  given  my 
nswer  in  words  before,  I  thought  a  repetition 
f  it  would  -be  mere  tautology.  I  was  glad,  too, 
o  bring  my  scruples  and  hesitations  to  a  violent 
nd.  I  simply  hit  out,  and  caught  my  antago- 
ist  fairly  on  the  left  eyebrow. 

Then  began  the  fight.     It  was  hearty,  vigor- 
us,  and  funny.     I  don't  know  whether  many 
f  my  readers  have  fought  a  battle  on  the  sea- 
hore  at  an  advanced  hour  of  a  dark  winter 
ight.     The  sensations  it  produces  are  decided- 
V  odd,  tantalizing,  and  bewildering ;  but  it  has 
s  peculiar  enjoyment  too.     At  least  this  battle 
f  mine  seemed  a  positively  delightful  relief 
rom  my  previous  frame  of  mind.     I  very  soon 
found  that  my  antagonist  was  far  stronger  than 
I.     He  had  indeed  arms  of  iron ;  and  he  took 
his    punishment   with    unruffled   countenance. 
The  punishment  was  pretty  hard,  for  he  had  no 
gleam  whatever  of  scientific  knowledge,  and  ex- 
posed himself  constantly  to  a  smart  blow  on  the 
face.     But  he  seemed  to  care  no  more  for  the 
blows  than  if  they  had  been  the  pepperings  of  a 
hail-shower,  although,  dark  as  it  was,  I  could 
see  that  his  face  was  bleeding  in  many  places. 
His  mode  of  fighting  was  an  odd  and  self-ac- 
quired process  altogether.    He  never  hit  straight 
out,  but  leveled   huge,   tremendous,   swinging 
blows  at  the  side  of  the  head,  literally  leaping 
off  his  feet  at  each  stroke,  so  as  to  lend  it  a 
more  furious  momentum.     I  was  inclined  to 
laugh  at  first,  but  I  soon  found  it  was  no  laugh- 
ing matter,  for  the  first  touch  I  got  of  one  of 
these  odd  blows— and  I  only  got  a  touch,  for  I 
sprang  aside  in  time — nearly  knocked  all  my 
senses  clear  away.     If  he  had  been  prompt  to 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


follow  up  his  victory,  the  combat  was  over  there 
and  then!  As  it  was,  I  felt  pretty  sure  that 
should  I  be  unlucky  enough  to  come  in  for  the 
full  force  and  swing  of  one  of  those  swashing 
blows,  it  would  be  enough  for  rne  ;  and  I  tried 
with  desperate  energy  all  such  resources  of  sci- 
ence and  strength  as  I  had  to  bring  the  fight  to 
a  conclusion.  He  bore  my  hammering  as  coolly 
as  if  he  were -of  iron  ;  and  alas  !  I  think  he  ac- 
quired at  last  a  sort  of  rude  notion  of  stratagem 
wholly  his  own.  He  threw  himself  quite  open 
in  the  most  tempting  fashion  to  one  of  my 
straightforward  blows,  took  it  without  even 
shaking  his  head,  and  while  I  was  in  the  very 
act  of  giving  .it,  suddenly  leaped  upright,  swung 
his  huge  flail  of  an  arm,  and  crash  across  the 
side  of  my  head  came  all  the  full  fury  of  his 
blow.  Meteors  in  a  rnqment  danced  and 
sparkled  all  around  me ;  stars,  comets,  flashes 
of  lightning  blazed  upon  my  eyes ;  thunders 
indescribable  rattled  round  my  ears  and  brain ; 
the  earth  heaved  beneath  ine;  the  dark  sky 
came  crashing  down  upon  me.  I  seemed  as  if 
I  were  cast  loose  from  all  gravitating  principle 
and  whirling  through  space,  now  head  up,  now 
heels  up — and  at  last  I  came  with  a  cruel  bang 
down  to  earth  again — and  then  I  felt  for  half  a 
second  a  soft,  sweet,  melting  sensation  of  lan- 
guid rest,  like  that  produced  to  a  bruised  man 
by  the  bleeding  of  a  vein,  and  I  just  heard 
something  like  a  shriek,  and  then  I  was  asleep. 

The  plain  practical  English  of  all  my  sensa- 
tions was  that  I  had  been  fairly  knocked  off  my 
feet  by  a  stunning  blow,  had  fallen  with  my 
head  crashing  against  a  stone,  and  had  then 
and  there  fainted. 

When  I  opened  my  eyes  I  saw  at  first  no- 
thing but  the  stars.  I  remained  feebly  con- 
templating them  a  moment,  as  if  that  were  all 
I  had  to  do  in  existence.  Then  I  saw  some 
dark  object  interpose  itself  between  me  and 
the  constellation  of  Orion,  and  I  recognized  the 
face  of  my  conqueror,  and  I  think  I  endeavor- 
ed to  frown  defiance ;  but  the  face  was  in  a 
moment  withdrawn.  Then  I  somehow  became 
conscious  that  a  soft  hand  was  passing  along 
my  forehead,  that  a  handkerchief,  or  something 
of  the  kind,  was  pressed  gently  but  firmly  on 
the  place  where  the  stone  had  cut  me ;  and  at 
last  I  came  to  understand  that  I  was  lying  on 
the  beach  with  my  head  in  a  woman's  lap. 

Unconsciously  I  spoke  half  aloud  the  word 
"Christina!" 

' '  Oh,  thank  God ! "  said  Christina's  own  voice, 
"he's  alive." 

"  Yes,  thank  God  !"  muttered  the  deep  voice 
of  the  poor  basso;  "I  didn't  mean  to  do  it, 
Christina — I  didn't  indeed.  I  wish  he  had 
done  it  to  me." 

"For  shame!"  replied  Christina,  still  in  a 
sort  of  whisper.  "  Shame  to  you — so  strong 
and  huge — to  fight  with  him ! " 

I  began  now  to  see  things  a  little  clearer ; 
and  I  scrambled  to  my  feet,  still  somewhat 
staggery,  perhaps,  but  quite  able  to  speak  up 
for  myself. 


"  It's  no  fault  of  his,"  I  said  ;  "and  I'm  quite 
well  able  to  fight  him.  Look  at  his  face,  Miss 
Braun,  and  see  if  he  hasn't  got  the  worst  of  it. 
And  it  was  all  my  fault,  too." 

Christina  rose  to  her  feet.  "NoAV,  shake 
hands,"  she  said,  "  and  don't  be  fools  any  more." 

My  antagonist  advanced  sheepishly,  and  held 
out  the  brawny  fist  which  had  proved  such  a 
rough  play-fellow. 

"I — I  hope  you'll  forgive  me,"  he  said,  with 
one  glance  at  me  and  another  at  Christina. 
"  I  was  quite  wrong  altogether  ;  and  I  know  it 
now,  and  I'm  sorry.  I'm  sure  I  don't  bear  any 
malice,  if  you  don't ;  and — and — how  do  you 
feel  now  ?" 

I  assured  him,  in  all  sincerity,  that  I  bore  no 
malice  whatever  ;  and  I  likewise  affirmed,  per- 
haps not  quite  so  sincerely,  that  I  felt  perfectly 
well — never  better  in  my  life.  Indeed,  I  was 
recovering  fast.  I  had  only  had  a  stunning 
blow  and  a  cut  head.  At  twenty  years  one 
soon  gets  over  such  trifles  as  these. 

I  then  learned  that  when  Christina  was  leav- 
ing the  singing-room  she  inquired  for  her  reg- 
ular escort,  and  was  told  that  he  had  gone  down 
toward  the  strand  with  me.  Something  led  her 
to  suspect  that  we  had  quarreled,  and  she  fol- 
lowed us,  but  arrived  only  in  time  to  Avitness 
the  ignominious  fall  and  utter  defeat  of  one 
combatant.  I  ought  to  have  been  delighted  at 
my  defeat,  for  it  brought  such  tender  interest 
and  anxiety  about  me ;  but  I  was  not  delight- 
ed. The  one  thing  present  to  my  mind  all 
through  was  that  I  had  been  "  licked,"  and  that 
she  saw  it.  "Earl  Percy  sees  my  fall,"  is  the 
reflection  that  lends  most  bitterness  to  the  fate 
of  the  old  hero  in  the  ballad.  What  is  the  hu- 
miliation of  a  chief  before  any  foe  compared 
with  that  of  a  youth  who  is  beaten  under  the 
very  eyes  of  the  girl  he  loves  ?  The  pity  and 
kindness  of  Christina  were  bitter  to  me. 

On  the  other  hand,  my  rival's  victory  did  not 
seem  to  have  crowned  him  with  joy.  He  had 
a  crest-fallen,  humbled,  spaniel-like  demeanor. 
We  both  walked  home  with  Christina,  who  in- 
sisted on  giving  me  her  arm  instead  of  taking 
mine,  on  the  ground  that  I  must  be  far  too  weak 
not  to  need  support. 

When  we  reached  her  door  I  heard  my  con- 
queror say  to  her  in  a  low  tone, 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me  any  more  ?'' 

"  No,"  was  the  answer,  given,  I  am  bound  to 
say,  in  any  thing  but  a  forgiving  tone.  "  Why 
should  I  be  angry  ?  Good-night." 

"  Ah,  but  you  are  angry.     Don't,  Christina !" 

"  Good-night." 

He  was  going  away,  depressed  and  silent, 
when  she  called  him  back  and  held  out  her 
hand. 

"No,  Edward,  I  am  not  angry.  I  was,  but 
I  am  not  any  more." 

"  And  may  I  come  for  you  to-morrow  night  ?" 

"If  you  like." 

"If  I  like!" 

He  turned  away  rejoicing. 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  me  without  saying 


16 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


a  word.     But  her  eyes  met  mine  :  and  some- 
how I  went  away  rejoicing  too. 

Next  day  I  called  upon  Miss  Griffin.  I  hard- 
ly knew  what  to  say  to  the  good  spinster,  and 
was  much  in  hope,  as  I  passed  up  through  the 
bonnet-shop,  that  the  organist  might  be  not  at 


home.  She  was  in.  I  went  up  stairs  and 
knocked  at  the  little  drawing-room  door.  Just 
then  I  heard  voices  inside,  and  I  would  have 
retreated ;  but  it  was  too  late.  Miss  Griffin's 
shrill  tones  were  heard : 
"Is  that  Mr.  Banks?" 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


17 


"Yes,  Miss. Griffin." 
"  Come  in,  Mr.  Banks,  please." 
I  entered.  Miss  Griffin  was  standing  up 
near  her  piano,  on  which  she  rested  one  hand, 
the  fingers  of  which  were  excitedly  playing  an 
imaginary  and  rapid  tune  on  the  walnut.  CHris- 
tina  Braun  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
and  looked  flushed  and  angry.  My  face  flush- 
ed more  deeply  than  hers  at  the  mere  sight  of 
her.  Miss  Griffin's  mamma  was  playing  with 
a  parrot  in  a  corner.  Seeing  that  Christina 
and  Miss  Griffin  had  evidently  been  engaged  in 
excited  colloquy,  I  made  for  the  mamma,  and 
would  have  at  once  pretended  to  bury  myself 
in  conversation  with  her,  but  she  waved  me  off 
with  the  back  of  her  hand,  and  with  a  warning 
gesture  directed  toward  the  two  principal'  per- 
sonages in  the  room,  as  one  who  should  say, 
"Forbear,  young  man;  something  highly  im- 
portant is  going  forward.  Disturb  it  not  by 
idle  words."  So  I  stood  transfixed  and  said 
nothing,  and  no  one  said  a  word  to  me. 

"  There's  no  use  in  talking,  Christina  Braun," 
Miss  Griffin  went  on ;  "I  can't  have  you  sing- 
ing any  longer  in  my  choir  unless  you  give  up 
that  horrid,  odious,  abominable  place.  Mr. 
Thirlwall  won't  have  it;  he  would  not  allow 
me  to  have  any  one  who  sings  there." 

"What  harm  is  that  place  ?"  Christina  asked, 
in  a  tone  half  pleading,  half  angry ;  "I  would 
not  go  there  if  I  could  help  it.  I  go  there,  be- 
lieve it,  not  for  my  pleasure.  I  go  there  be- 
cause I  must  live,  and  my  father  must  live. 
You  have  not  a  father,  Miss  Griffin." 

Mamma  pursed  her  mouth,  raised  her  eye- 
brows, lifted  her  hands,  and  silently  appealed, 
first  to  me  and  then  to  the  parrot,  against  the 
boldness  of  this  remark.  It  seemed  positively 
to  insinuate  a  comparison  between  Christina's 
father  and  the  late  Mr.  Griffin. 

"And,"  added  Christina,  "they  pay  me  more 
money  than  the  church  can  give." 
"Oh,  Christina!" 
"  I  speak  to  no  one  there." 
"  But  you  must  know  it  is  not  a  proper  place 
for  a  girl." 

"  I  do  not  know  that  it  is  not  a  proper  place. 
Did  we  not  often  sing  songs— yes,  well,  and 
also  play  waltzes,  in  the  choir  when  there  were 
not  people  praying  below  ?" 

"Christina,  it  isn't  the  singing  of  the  songs, 
as  you  know  very  well ;  it's  the  people — the 
kind  of  people  who  go  there." 

"I  do  not  speak  to  the  people,  they  do  not 
speak  to  me,  except  they  who  sing  as  my- 
self." 

"Really,  Miss  Griffin,"  said  I,  striking  in, 
"there  is  no  harm  whatever  in  the  place,  and 
I  think  it's  quite  absurd  and  ridiculous  of  Mr. 
Thirlwall  to  go  on  in  such  a  way.  He's  a  reg- 
ular old  idiot,  I  think,  and  an  ancient  humbug 
toa." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Banks ;  I  am  much  obliged 
to  you  for  your  kind  and  respectful  way  of  speak- 
ing of  our  clergyman,  and  the  considerate  man 
ner  in  which  you  assist  me  in  keeping  up  the  dis- 
B 


cipline  of  the  choir.    For  you,  Christina,  you  do 
not  know  what  may  become  of  you." 

;<  Nothing  will  become  of  me,  God  helping — 
nothing  of  harm.  And  I  may  as  well  begin, 
Miss  Griffin.  Once  I  shall  go  upon  the  theatre 
and  sing  there — " 

At  this  point  Miss  Griffin  seemed  to  think 
the  discussion  had  gone  quite  far  enough.  She 
ceased  to  beat  her  silent  tune  upon  the  piano  ; 
but  she  came  round  to  the  front  of  the  instru- 
ment, deliberately  took  off  the  music-book  which 
stood  on  the  little  frame,  shut  the  book  up,  put 
down  the  frame,  and  then  closed  the  piano  with 
a  solemn  bang.  There  was  no  obvious  occasion 
for  this  performance.  I  interpreted  it  to  be  a 
sort  of  formal  and  ceremonial  act  of  excommu- 
nication. 

It  seemed,  however,  to  have  relieved  Miss 
Griffin's  mind  of  some  of  its  anger.  She  turned 
to  Christina  now  with  an  expression  of  face 
rather  grieved  than  severe.  The  excommuni- 
cation once  fairly  done,  she  seemed  stricken 
with  pity  for  the  outcast. 

"  Well,  Christina,"  she  said,  "  if  I  am  to  un- 
derstand that  you  will  not  give  up  that  place — ' 

"Will  not  give  it  up  ?    I  can  not  give  it  up." 

"Then  I  am  very,  very  sorry;  and  I  would 
keep  you  if  I  could — indeed  I  would,  although 
perhaps  you  don't  think  it  now;  but  I  must 
not  do  it,  for  you  see,  Christina,  if  you  have  a 
father  to  support,  I  have  a  mother,  and  I  can't 
battle  against  what  people  say;  and  so  we  must 
part.  I  hope  you  will  do  well,  Christina,  wher- 
ever you  go  ;  only  I  do  hope  you  will  never  be 
tempted  to  sing  in  any  of  those  Romanist  places, 
whatever  they  may  offer  you ;  and  remember 
to  be  a  good  girl,  and  never  to  give  up  your 
church." 

"The  church,"  said  Christina,  with  a  flash 
of  something  like  scorn  crossing  her  face,  "has 
given  me  up,  I  think..  But  I  blame  you  not  at 
all,  Miss  Griffin ;  you  were  very  kind  to  me  al- 
ways— always." 

Poor  Miss  Griffin  was  quite  dissolved  in  tears. 
The  very  kindliest  of  mortals,  she  was  in  an- 
guish at  the  part  she  had  to  play  in  the  trans- 
action, and  still  more,  I  fully  believe,  at  the 
thought  of  the  awful  ruin  of  all  heavenly  pros- 
pects which  she  clearly  saw  impending  over  one 
who  refused  to  follow  the  behests  of  her  clergy- 
man, and  who  sang  nigger-melodies  for  sailors. 

Christina  bade  Miss  Griffin  good -by;  and 
both  were  in  tears.  Then  the  outcast  walked 
toward  Miss  Griffin's  mamma  and  held  out  her 
hand.  But  the  mamma's  dignity  was  hurt  at 
the  disobedience  and  disrespect,  and  she  drew 
back,  executed  the  most  formal  of  bows,  and 
said,  "Adieu,  Mademoiselle." 

Then  came  my  turn.  Christina  held  out  her 
hand  to  me,  and  her  eyes  met  mine.  I  took 
her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  my  lips.  A  slight 
shriek  from  mamma  testified  to  her  sense  of  my 
scandalous  conduct.  Miss  Griffin  was  absorbed 
in  tears  and  did  not  see  it. 

Christina  left  the  room,  and  I  hurried  after 
her. 


18 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


"Mr.  Banks,"  I  heard  Miss  Griffin  call  out, 
"  please  don't  go  yet.  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
particularly — about  the  choir." 

"In  five  minutes,  two  minutes,  Miss  Griffin," 
was  my  retreating  answer ;  and  ^  relieved  my- 
self by  adding,  in  a  lower  tone,  "  the  choir  may 
go  to  the  devil." 

I  overtook  Christina  at  the  door. 

She  abandoned  the  choir,  then  and  there, 
never  reappearing  within  its  precincts. 

And  I  went  that  night,  and  many  nights  suc- 
cessively, to  the  condemned  and  fatal  singing- 
saloon. 

In  little  more  than  a  week  a  considerable 
change  was  brought  about  in  the  relations  of 
the  personages  of  this  story.  There  was  first 
a  sort  of  break-down  in  the  arrangements  of  the 
choir,  and  one  Sunday  the  audience  had  to  be 
content  with  merely  an  instrumental  perform- 
ance. Soon  a  new  bass,  a  new  tenor,  and  a 
new  soprano  gladdened  the  pious  ears  and 
hearts  of  the  congregation.  For  immediately 
on  Christina's  abandoning  the  choir  Ned  Lam- 
bert did  what  I  had  felt  sure  he  would  do — he 
gave  up  his  post  and  sang  bass  for  that  congre- 
gation no  more.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  nev- 
er to  go  near  the  place  again,  once  Christina 
abandoned  it ;  and  I  was  only  sorry  the  sacri- 
fice was  not  a  far  greater  one  (really  it  was  not 
quite  insignificant),  that  I  might  have  had  the 
proud  consciousness  of  voluntary  martyrdom. 

The  affair  created  quite  a  little  stir  in  our 
microcosm.  It  was  talked  of  for  fully  three 
weeks — at  least,  three  Sundays.  I  attended 
church  the  first  Sunday,  as  unprofessional  wor- 
shiper, in  the  hope  that  Mr.  Thirlwall  might 
make  some  allusion  to  us  in  his  sermon.  But 
he  did  not,  and  I  was  disappointed.  Many 
eyes  were  turned  on  me,  however ;  and  people 
coming  out  of  church  and  passing  me  whispered 
and  shrugged  their  shoulders,  and  I  felt  rather 
proud.  The  general  conclusion  of  the  congre- 
gation was  that  we  three — Christina  Braun, 
Edward  Lambert,  and  myself — were  simply  go- 
ing to  the  devil. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
"FAR  ABOVE  SINGING." 

MR.  BRAUN  and  his  daughter  still  occupied 
the  house  in  which  the  former  had  endeavored 
in  vain  to  win  the  childhood  of  our  town  to 
philosophy  and  science  by  the  royal  road  of 
amusement.  Our  childhood  absolutely  refused 
even  toys,  if  any  manner  of  instruction  and 
moral  purpose  were  to  come  with  them ;  and 
therefore,  while  Mr.  Braun  still  technically  oc- 
cupied the  house,  his  actual  occupancy  was  con- 
fined to  three  small  rooms  on  the  second-floor. 
He  had  been  driven  back  in  this  way  from  stage 
to  stage,  his  domain  growing  gradually  smaller 
and  smaller,  like  the  Pope's,  until  even  the  lit- 
tle Leonine  City  now  left  him  seemed  itself 
only  the  final  halting-place  before  absolute  sur- 
render of  all  temporal  endowment.  The  shop 


was  let  to  a  watch-maker ;  the  first-floor  was  oc- 
cupied by  a  hair-dresser;  and  as  one  of  the 
plates  on  the  street-door  bore  the  name  of 
"Miss  Muncey,  milliner," and  I  sometimes  did 
meet  lank  and  lymphatic  young  women  on  the 
starts,  I  had  to  infer  that  the  third-floor— the 
garrets,  in  fact— constituted  the  work-rooms 
and  show-rooms  of  Miss  Muncey. 

The  little  sitting-room  occupied  by  the 
Brauns  was  perhaps  as  poorly  furnished  an 
apartment  as  any  could  well  be  which  did  not 
proclaim  actual  destitution.  A  few  of  the  poor- 
est cane-chairs,  and  not  more  than  a  few ;  an 
arm-chair,  covered  with  the  cheapest  flowered 
calico ;  a  central  table  of  deal,  with  a  faded, 
over-washed  cover;  these  and  an  infirm  sofa 
made  up  the  principal  part  of  the  stock  of  fur- 
niture. There  was,  however,  a  piano  of  good 
tone — a  relic  of  better  days— with  which  Chris- 
tina would  not  part,  and  which,  indeed,  was 
her  sole  capital  and  "plant"  as  a  musician. 
There  were  always  flowers  in  the  room,  and  bo- 
tanical specimens  carefully  pressed  and  tasteful- 
ly displayed ;  there  were  two  or  three  pretty 
vases  of  Bohemian  glass  ;  there  was  Mr.  Braun's 
flute,  really  a  handsome  article,  with  old-fash- 
ioned silver  keys;  there  was  his  pipe,  huge, 
and  likewise  silver-mounted.  These  and  other 
stray  properties  gave  an  appearance  to  the  room 
which  at  least  suggested  refinement,  and  some- 
thing like  ornament.  And  I  should  not  surely 
omit  to  mention  a  beautifully  carved  and  pol- 
ished book-case,  small,  but  of  genuine  oak  and 
admirable  workmanship ;  and  I  knew  the  mo- 
ment I  saw  it  whose  hand  had  wrought  it,  and 
whose  gift  it  was.  "It  was  given  to  my  fa- 
ther," said  Christina  to  me  afterward,  "not  to 
me.  I  would  not  have  taken  it,  though  I  know 
poor  Ned  would  have  been  vexed  by  a  refusal ; 
and  so  I  am  glad  he  didn't  offer  it  to  me." 

It  was  easy  to  understand,  after  an  evening 
spent  in  this  little  room,  why  the  burden  of  life 
had  fallen  so  heavily  and  so  early  upon  my 
poor  Christina.  Her  father  had  entirely  given 
up  all  idea  of  struggling  any  longer  with  the 
world,  although  he  was  far  from  being  too  old 
for  stout  and  stiff  exertion.  He  was  the  gen- 
tlest and  the  feeblest  being  I  ever  met.  He  was 
a  small,  very  small  man,  with  a  pale,  thin, 
clearly-marked,  handsome  face ;  a  benevolent, 
mild,  and  placid  expression ;  soft,  silky,  scantv 
gray  hair;  and  large,  dark,  gray-blue  eyes. 
His  eyes  were  precisely  like  his  daughter's, 
much  darker  than  his  complexion  would  have 
led  you  to  expect ;  but  there  the  resemblance 
ceased.  Mr.  Braun  spoke  English  admirably ; 
he  played  the  piano  and  the  flute  well ;  he  was 
an  accomplished  botanist,  and  knew  a  good  deal 
about  chemistry  and  astronomy.  He  talked 
much  of  flowers,  of  stars,  of  the  poetry  of  na- 
ture, of  shadows  and  sunrises,  of  beautiful  and 
gentle  things  generally;  and  of  the  poets  and 
writers  Avho  sang  and  discoursed  of  such  things. 
When  he  was  not  playing  his  flute  he  common- 
ly sat  and  smoked  his  pipe,  the  bowl  of  which 
rested  on  the  ground,  all  the  evening  through. 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


He  always  rose  early,  and  walked  on  the  hills 
or  by  the  sea ;  rose  none  the  less  early  though 
he  had  been  out  on  the  strand  watching  some 
planet  or  constellation  till  long  past  midnight ; 
and  while  Christina  provided  him  with  fc  the 
means  of  living,  he  repaid  her  with  fresh  flow- 
ers, and  observations  on  the  heavens,  and  the 
beauty  of  life,  and  the  divine  purpose  in  every 
thing.  He  was,  indeed,  a  thoroughly  imprac- 
ticable, well-meaning,  good-for-nothing,  lovable 
old  man.  He  would  have  provoked  me  terri- 
bly, I  think,  if  I  were  his  son ;  but  he  did  not 
seem  to  provoke  Christina.  She  appeared  to 
take  it  as  quite  a  matter  of  course  that  her  fa- 
ther should  smoke  his  pipe,  or  botanize,  while 
she  toiled  to  get  money  and  provide  dinner,  and 
make  the  two  ends  meet.  He  was  always  sweet, 
mild,  and  happy.  He  had  been  blessed,  or 
cursed,  with  that  calm,  light  nature  which  can 
put  away  trouble  or  responsibility  in  a  moment, 
and  find  enjoyment  any  where.  He  had  lost 
wife  and  children — six  children — all  of  whom 
he  dearly  loved ;  but  he  lived  on  tranquil,  and 
spoke  of  them  as  having  been  happily  trans- 
ferred to  amaranthine  bowers,  where  they  had 
only  to  await  his  coming.  What  he  had  him- 
self done  to  merit  that  sure  translation  to  im- 
mortal bliss  I  never  could  learn ;  but  it  was  clear 
that  his  mind  was  quite  made  up  on  that  point. 
So,  too,  of  his  daughter.  She  reverenced  in 
him,  as  pure  and  lofty  religious  feeling,  that 
which  I  always  regarded  merely  as  the  physical 
placidity  of  a  temperament  not  susceptible  of 
any  strong  or  keen  emotion.  An  innocently 
selfish,  mildly  egotistic  man,  you  could  not  help 
loving  him,  and  I  at  least  could  not  help  some- 
times despising  him.  While  the  stars  shone, 
while  the  flowers  bloomed,  when  the  snow  cov- 
ered the  ground  and  the  frost  made  the  bram- 
bles look  like  sprays  and  spars  of  crystal,  he 
was  happy,  and  could  not  be  otherwise.  He 
could  forget  hunger  in  the  contemplation  of  a 
flower ;  all  humanity  in  the  polishing  of  a  stone. 
He  cared  as  little  for  active  thought  as  for  ac- 
tive pursuits ;  and  knew  less  of  politics  than  an 
American  infant  generally  does.  The  political 
agitations,  struggles,  sufferings,  aspirations  of 
his  own  countrymen,  inspired  him  only  with 
a  tranquil  scorn.  He  often  asked,  with  utter 
contempt  in  his  tone,  what  it  mattered  who 
owned  the  Khine,  so  long  as  men  could  see  its 
waters  shining  as  brightly  as  ever  in  the  sun, 
and  darkening  as  before  in  the  shadows  of  the 
everlasting  hills. 

"German  unity!"  he  would  say,  scornfully 
"  Germany  has  unity.  Has  she  not  Goethe  and 
Novalis  and  Jean  P.aul?  has  she  not  Fichte? 
Hapsburg  owns  not  less  Kant  than  Branden- 
burg; Bavaria  can  sing  the  songs  of  Uhland 
and  Arndt,  as  well  as  Suabia.  Our  unity  is  in 
our  soul,  and  our  language,  and  our  worship  of 
the  beautiful  and  divine.  The  rest  is  nothing 
—no,  nothing  at  all,  or  mere  smoke  and  cloud 
veiling  the  glow  of  the  heaven,  as  Faust  him- 
self has  said.'' 

Mr.  Braun  never  looked  one  moment  beyond 


the  present,  and  was  angry  in  his  mild  way  with 
any  one  who  did.  He  was  displeased  with 
Christina  for  singing  of  nights  in  the  Cave  of 
Harmony,  not  because  he  had  any  objection  to 
the  place,  or  the  company,  or  the  kind  of  life 
to  which  it  introduced  her ;  not  because  it  over- 
tasked her,  or  threatened  to  wear  out  her  voice, 
or  endangered  her  in  any  way ;  but  because  she 
had  to  leave  him  for  some  hours  every  evening, 
and  he  was  lonely  without  her.  So  he  was 
vexed  with  her,  and  chafed  in  his  own  small 
way,  and  was  jealous,  as  if  her  leaving  him  was 
a  willful  act  of  neglect,  or  indifference  to  his 
happiness.  He  did  not  concern  himself  to 
think  who  would  pay  the  rent  if  poor  Christina 
had  not  always  had  spirit  and  sense  enough  to 
act  for  herself.  A  sort  of  philosopher,  he  was 
perhaps  wise  in  his  own  conceit  of  life's  theory 
and  purpose;  but  philosophers  of  that  school 
ought  never  to  have  any  children.  I  have  oft- 
en thought  that  when  Morality  blames  Eous- 
seau  for  having  abandoned  his  children  to  a 
foundling  hospital,  it  blames  him  for  one  of  the 
only  wise  things  he  ever  did.  Better  to  confide 
them  to  the  care  of  any  institution,  managed 
by  any  sane  and  human  creatures,  than  to  keep 
them  under  his  own  melancholy  and  imbecile 
charge. 

I  took  lessons  in  German  from  Mr.  Braun. 
I  really  wanted  to  learn  the  language,  partly 
for  its  own  sake,  and  more  because  it  was  Chris- 
tina's native  tongue.  But  of  course  my  chief 
reason  was  to  have  a  plausible  excuse  for  com- 
ing often  to  the  house.  After  the  lapse  of  a 
quarter  I  paid  him  some  money.  He  took  it 
passively,  and  laid  it  beside  him.  Christina 
coming  in  soon  after  found  the  money,  made 
inquiry  about  it,  and  gave  it  back  to  me.  I 
would  have  resisted,  but  she  flushed  so  angrily 
that  I  pocketed  it  without  further  objection. 

"My  father  knows  nothing  about  money," 
she  said,  "  and  never  did.  I  arrange  all  that ; 
it  is  good  enough  task  for  women.  He  was 
made  for  something  much  better,  and  we  al- 
ways liked  to  spare  him.  I  know  he  never 
meant  to  take  any  money  from  you ;  you  have 
lost  enough  by  us  already." 

For  she  would  insist  upon  regarding  my  with- 
drawal from  the  choir  as  a  high,  mighty,  and 
chivalrous  sacrifice. 

"  You  took  this  in  mistake,  father?"  she  said, 
appealing  to  him;  "you  were  not  thinking; 
you  took  it,  not  observing  ?" 

"Versteht  sich,"  he  placidly  replied,  waving 
away  with  his  hand  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  sol- 
emnly indifferent  to  the  whole  business.  I  said 
no  more,  and  what  future  lessons  I  received 
were  accepted  without  talk  of  payment. 

I  do  not  know  what  was  the  special  charm 
which  made  me  so  suddenly  fall  in  Jove  with 
Christina  Braun.  Falling  in  love  is  indeed  the 
most  exact  description  of  what  befell  me.  From 
a  smooth  level  of  calm  indifference  I  literally 
fell  into  a  glowing  deep  of  love.  Nor  did  this 
condition  seem  likely  to  change.  It  was  im- 
possible for  me  not  to  continue  loving  her.  To 


20 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


begin  with,  she  was  intensely,  exuberantly,  an 
above  all  things,  feminine.    In  every  glance  an 
movement  she  now  seemed  to  my  opened  eve 
to  diffuse  some  vague  sense  of  womanhood  a] 
around  her.     As  one  is  conscious  of  the  pres 
ence  of  flowers  which  he  does  not  see,  as  on 
feels  the  air  surcharged  with  electricity  before 
the  thunder-storm,  so  I  always  felt  the  influ 
ence,  the  sensuous  influence  if  you  will,  of  ideal 
ized  womanhood  when  Christina  was  near.     ! 
do  not  know  whether  this  sort  of  feeling  ca"n  b 
made  intelligible  in  any  words  of  mine,  but  ^ 
can  not  better  describe  the  sensation  of  delight 
refinement,  and  romantic  love  which  her  men 
presence  awakened  in  my  soul.    As  I  look  back 
now,  all  the  purple  light  of  youth,  all  the  gla- 
mour of  poetry,  all  the  bewitching  illusions  of 
music,  seem  to  glorify  that   time  when  first 
Christina's  presence  grew  a  familiar  influence 
to  me. 

There  was  an  extraordinary  quality  of  quiet 
energy  in  her  which  amazed  me  when  I  came 
to  appreciate  it.  It  was  not  the  energy  which 
fusses  and  bustles — to  most  young  men  a  terri- 
bly disenchanting  and  disagreeable  quality.  It 
was  an  energy  which  made  itself  silently  felt : 
a  great  self-sufficing  quality.  The  early  ne- 
cessity of  thinking  and  acting  for  two,  the  im- 
possibility of  consulting  with  one  who  was  as 
useless  for  consultation  as  a  baby,  had  doubt- 
less forced  this  quality  into  regular  action. 
Christina  seemed  to  be  of  that  class  of  women 
who  can  make  something  almost  out  of  nothing. 
For  easy  and  prompt  adornment  of  her  grace- 
ful figure  she  had  a  positive  genius.  I  have 
often  wondered  and  admired  to  see  what  a 
splendid  simulation  of  imposing  concert-cos- 
tume she  could  confer  upon  herself  with  a  little 
white  muslin  and  a  few  scraps  of  ribbon  and 
roses ;  and  she  could  put  on  an  old  shawl  in 
a  style  that  Lady  Hamilton  might  have  en- 
vied. 

I  grew  into  the  habit  of  spending  every  dis- 
engaged hour — and  nearly  the  whole  of  every 
Sunday— in  the  familiar  little  room  over  the 
watch-maker's  and  under  the  milliner's.  We 
sang,  we  played,  we  read,  we  recited,  we  talked 
German,  we  had  very,  very  humble  and  modest 
suppers;  we  were  immensely  .sociable,  uncon- 
strained, full  of  sentiment,  full  of  laughter,  and 
happy.  Edward  Lambert  came  sometimes  and 
took  lessons  on  the  flute  from  Mr.  Braun,  for 
which  I  know  he  contrived  delicately  to  make 
some  return  in  one  way  or  another.  A  patient, 
manly  creature,  he  sometimes  spent  his  whole 
evening  at  his  flute-lesson,  while  Christina  and 
I  talked  or  sang  duets  on  the  nights  when  she 
was  free.  I  knew  that  he  loved  her,  dearly  and 
disinterestedly,  without  selfishness  and  without 
hope.  I  knew  that  she  regarded  him  as  one 
might  regard  a  fond  and  faithful  Newfoundland 
dog.  After  a  while  he  ceased  to  come  very 
often,  and  when  he  did  come  he  talked  chiefly 
to  Mr.  Braun. 

These  were  pleasant  times,  and  free.  They 
gave  a  sort  of  mild  foretaste  or  breath  of  the  Bo- 


hemian life  which  awaited  some  of  us.  What- 
ever of  intellectual  culture  I  have  ever  had  I 
owe  its  development  to  these  days  and  evenings, 
to  that  mild  old  man,  to  that  girl.  I  learned 
to  read  French  and  Italian  and  German,  and 
to  speak  these  languages  fluently  enough,  if 
not  always  very  gracefully  and  grammatically. 
Years  and  years  after  a  Frenchwoman  told  me 
I  spoke  French  like  a  German  and  not  like  an 
Englishman.  A  more  happy,  harmless  life  no 
youth  could  well  have  spent. 

Was  I  very  much  grieved  when  Ned  Lam- 
bert left  our  little  circle  and  went  away  to  Lon- 
don? This  happened  when  the  kind  of  life, 
blended  of  Arcadia  and  Bohemia,  which  I  have 
been  describing,  had  lasted  nearly  a  year.  Well, 
I  parted  from  the  good  fellow  with  a  pang ;  but 
I  must  assuredly  have  felt  relieved  when  he 
went  away.  He  was  an  ambitious  young  fel- 
low enough ;  and  his  ambition  was  to  become 
something  like  an  artist.  Therefore  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  be  an  organ-builder;  and  a 
chance  opened  for  him  through  some  friends 
in  London,  of  which  he  willingly  availed  him- 
self. I  happened  just  to  come  in*to  Mr.  Braun's 
on  the  day  when  Lambert  was  taking  his  final 
leave.  He  was  holding  in  his  hand  a  little 
purse,  a  parting  keepsake  from  Christina,  and 
twisting  it  awkwardly  between  his  fingers. 

"  When  shall  we  three  meet  again  ?"  I  be- 
gan, endeavoring  to  say  something  pleasant. 

"We  three? — we  four!"  interjected  Mr. 
Braun.  "  I  am  not  to  be  left  out  of  the  pros- 
pect. I  hope  to  be  at  the  next  meeting  too." 

"It  must  be  in  London,  then,"  murmured 
poor  Ned,  disconsolately.  "I  sha'n't  come 
back  here  ever  again — ever  again." 

The  last  time  I  saw  Lambert — not  long  since 
— he  told  me  that  through  all  the  intervening 
years  he  never  did  return  to  the  old  town,  and 
never  would. 

"In  London,  then,"  said  I;  "for  London 
we  are  all  bound.  We  are  not  going  to  stop 
-n  this  old  place  all  our  lives,  while  Ned  Lam- 
)ert  becomes  a  great  man,  and  makes  a  for- 
tune in  London." 

'I'm  not  likely  to  come  to  much,"  said  Lam- 
>ert;  "and  I  don't  want  to  make  a  fortune — 

)W." 

I  saw  tears  sparkle  in  Christina's  eyes. 
"  Good-by,  Edward,"  she  said ;  "  but  not  for- 
ever!    Oh  no,  not  forever!     You  have  been 
cinder  and  better  than  a  brother  to  me  for  ever 
o  long;  and  I  shall  never,  never  forget  you." 

She  put  her  arm  over  his  shoulder,  drew  him 
[own  toward  her,  and  kissed  him  twice.  Then 
he  turned  and  went  abruptly  into  her  own  room, 
^ed  Lambert  tossed  his  hand  in  the  air  as  a 
cind  of  silent  -parting  salute  to  us,  and  in  a 
noment  we  heard  his  rapid  steps  descending 
he  stairs. 

'  He  is  a  good  lad,  Edward  Lambert, "  said 
VIr.  Braun  ;  "  a  kind,  true-hearted  boy.  He 
oes  remind  me  of  some  of  our  German  youth, 
vith  his  large  grave  face,  and  his  strong  hands, 
nd  his  soft  heart.  He  is  fond  of  Christina ; 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


21 


and  he  did  ask  her  to  marry  him — ach,  Gott, 
yes  !  and  last  night  again.  But  she  could  not 
love  him  in  that  way,  Emanuel.  She  could  not 
love  him  to  marry  him,  as  you  know."  And  the 
kind  old  man  looked  at  me  with  beaming,  gen- 
tle eyes. 

Yes ;  I  did  know  it  by  this  time.  I  must 
have  been  stupidly  undeserving  of  any  woman's 
regard  if  I  had  not  felt  before  now  that  Chris- 
tina Braun  loved  me. 


CHAPTER  V. 

DEATH   IN  ARCADIA. 

NONE  of  us  liked  the  singing-saloon.  Not 
that  there  was  any  thing  bad  about  it  ex- 
cept its  name ;  that,  in  a  small  country  town, 
was  quite  enough.  In  our  town  it  did  not 
much  matter  whether  a  man,  woman,  or  insti- 
tution was  really  bad  or  good.  The  sole  ques- 
tion was  whether  he,  she,  or  it  had  a  bad  name. 
So  it  had  long  been  our  object  that  Christina 
should  abandon  the  music-hall,  and  try  to  live 
by  teaching  singing  arid  the  piano.  At  last  we 
resolved  that  a  day-school  should  be  opened. 
Yes ;  Mr.  and  Miss  Braun's  school — French, 
German,  and  music.  We  advertised  in  the  lo- 
cal paper — rather  a  stretch  of  boldness  on  our 
part  in  those  quiet  days — and  I  brought  in  a 
copy  of  the  paper  that  same  evening,  over  which 
we  gazed  and  laughed  a  good  deal.  Young  la- 
dies and  gentlemen  were  to  be  taught ;  and  of 
course  perfectly  original  plans  were  to  be  adopt- 
ed in  the  teaching  of  every  thing.  A  great 
brass  plate  was  got  and  engraved  with  the  le- 
gend, "  Mr.  and  Miss  Braun's  School."  I 
crossed  the  street  furtively  to  look  at  it,  and  re- 
port as  to  the  effect ;  and  the  thing  was  so  far 
accomplished. 

Not  many  pupils  came  at  first.  The  story 
of  Christina's  nightly  performances  had  of 
course  got  abroad,  and  made  mammas  feel  shy 
of  such  an  instructress.  Gradually,  however, 
a  few  were  got  together,  all  from  the  humbler 
ranks  of  our  middle  plateau;  these  brought 
more ;  and  the  terms  being  moderate,  and  a 
good  deal  taught  for  the  money,  things  began 
to  look  a  little  more  prosperous. 

Still,  this  was  clearly  not  the  kind  of  field 
which  Christina's  ambition  would  have  sought. 
We  had  often  indulged  and  talked  over  wild 
hopes  that  at  some  distant  period  we  might  sing 
together,  prima  donna  and  prirno  tenore,  upon 
some  great  stage,  with  half  a  metropolis  for  our 
audience.  "I  saw  Rubini,"  Mr.  Braun  would 
sometimes  repeat,  "in  Italy,  when  he  was  your 
age— Ja  wohl,  I  knew  him  too — and  he  had  not 
a  finer  voice.  No;  that  had  he  not."  I  re- 
port this  eulogy  of  my  voice  without  a  blush. 
The  tribunal  which  is  proverbially  wiser  than 
Voltaire  has  since  decided,  very  conclusively, 
that  my  voice  is  not  quite  equal  to  Rubini's. 
But  at  the  time  the  praise  was  spoken  it  had 
some  effect  upon  me  other  than  to  make  me 
smile. 


In  fact  it  had  bedome  gradually  understood 
that  the  musical  and  other  fortunes  of  Christina 
and  myself  were  to  be  associated  in  life  and  for 
life,  whenever  fate  and  favor  should  allow  us  to 
begin  the  struggle  together.  We  were  to  make 
a  great  name  in  Florence,  in  Paris,  in  London. 
I  need  not  say  that  we  did  not  pause  to  con- 
sider whether  any  difficulties  were  likely  to 
arise  in  the  way  of  a  pair  who  began  by  getting 
married  as  a  preliminary  to  seeking  their  for- 
tune. As  to  our  solitary  counselor,  he  would 
have  seen  no  objection  whatever  to  any  scheme 
which  seemed  graceful,  disinterested,  and  some- 
what romantic ;  and  even  if  the  scheme  had 
none  of  these  recommendations,  he  would  have 
become  reconciled  to  it  or  any  thing  else  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  So  far,  then,  the  common 
obstructions  to  the  course  of  true  love  did  not, 
m  our  case,  rise  to  disturb  the  smoothness  of 
the  current.  There  were  only  three  persons  in 
the  world  to  be  consulted,  or  who  cared  a  straw 
about  the  matter,  and  they  were  quite  in  har- 
mony on  the  subject. 

At  least  we  were  quite  in  harmony  so  far  as 
the  love  and  the  main  wish  of  two  lives  were- 
concerned.  But  the  feelings  of  Christina  and 
myself  did  not  always  flow  in  the  same  channel. 
She  was  a  true-born  artist ;  I  never  was,  ex- 
cept in  the  merely  technical  sense,  an  artist  at 
all.  She  would  have  given  up  a  fortune  for  a 
lyric  success  ;  if  I  were  assured  of  an  easy  in- 
come, I  should  no  more  have  thought  of  be- 
coming a  professional  singer  than  of  becoming 
an  amateur  fireman.  Moreover,  all  her  plans 
and  projects  now  were  for  splendid  success  un- 
der my  leadership.  Like  all  women  who  have 
any  imagination,  she  saw  her  lover  as  a  hero 
destined  to  triumph  on  every  field  he  chose  to 
enter.  She  always  arranged  the  plan  of  the 
future  as  if  we  could  not  fail.  I  looked  for- 
ward with  a  secret  dread  of  failure  to  every  un- 
dertaking in  which  I  was  likely  to  bear  a  part. 
For  all  that  is  talked  of  man's  idle  self-conceit, 
I  think  an  ignoble  distrust  of  our  own  capabili- 
ties is  one  of  the  commonest  of  masculine  weak- 
nesses. In  my  case,  indeed,  my  distrust  was 
well  justified  in  one  sense;  but  it  helped,  more 
than  any  thing  else,  to  spoil  some  part  of  my 
life.  Christina  really  knew  what  she  could  do ; 
and  she  was  only  waiting  for  the  time  to  do  it. 
She  was  quite  happy,  cooking  her  father's  sau- 
sage and  lighting  his  pipe;  but  all  the  time  she 
knew  herself  an  embryo  prima  donna,  and  re- 
garded the  musical  world  as  only  waiting  for 
her.  There  were  times  when  I  felt  something 
like  a  pang  of  pity  for  her  inexperience,  and 
her  confident,  sanguine  nature.  I  ought  rather 
to  have  pitied  my  own  inferior  courage,  miser- 
ably inferior  endowments,  inferior  organization 
altogether.  Knowing  what  she  became — know- 
ing what,  under  brighter  auspices,  .she  might 
have  become — it  now  seems  to  me  the  very 
blindness  of  affection  which  made  her  dream 
for  a  moment  of  placing  herself  and  her  career 
under  the  guidance  and  guardianship  of  one  so 
miserably  unworthy. 


22 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER 


I  often  wondered  how,  with  her  ideas  and  he 
hopes,  she  could  have  endured  singing  in  a  vu 
gar  provincial  music-hall.     I  told  her  as  much 
"I  would  sing  any  where,"  she  said,  "rath 
er  than  be  in  debt.     Father  could  do  nothing 
and  I  must  use  every  power  I  have,  or  he  mus 
starve.      I  would  have  sung  my  songs  in  th 
streets   rather  than  see  him  troubled   to   ge 
bread.     So  little   makes   him   happy,  that  i 
would  be  a  shame  if  he  were   to   want  an1 
thing;    and  then  he  is  old,  and   he  remain 
not  long,   perhaps;"  and  tears   stood   in  he 
eyes.     "I  sang  in  a  concert -saloon  in  Co 
logne,  a  room  near  the  theatre ;  I  -wonder  ii 
it's  there  now  ?     I  could  find  it  in  a  moment 
if  I  were  there ;  we  will  go  there  one  day  anc 
look  at  the  outside  of  it ;  but  only  the  outside 
for  I  hated  the  place  itself.     Yes,  I  sang  there 
when  I  was  a  little  one— yes,  only  ten  years  old. 
"But  you  were  not  born  in  Cologne  ?" 
"No,  no;   much  farther  away  from  this — 
across  the  Vistula."     (She  mentioned  an  old 
historic  Prussian  town.)     "We  only  came  to 
Cologne  when  we  were  coming  to  England; 
and  we  only  came  to  England  to  go  to  Ameri- 
ca.    But  father  has  not  the  art  of  getting  for- 
ward in  any  thing ;  and  so  we  remained  a  whole 
year  in  Cologne  on  our  way  to  England,  and 
now  we  have  been  many  years  in  England  on 
our  way  to  America ;  and  I  don't  suppose  we 
shall  ever  get  there,  unless  we  go  there  some 
day  to  visit  your  brother,  Emanuel." 

"But  we  shall  visit  your  birth-place  some 
day,  shall  we  not,  dearest  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  Emanuel;  I  don't  like  to 
think  of  it.  I  was  not  happy  there — oh,  not 
happy  at  all,  but  very  miserable ;  and  I  do  not 
want  ever  to  see  the  place  any  more.  It  is  like 
a  discord,  or  a  broken  string,  or  a  harsh  note,  or 
something  of  that  kind,  coming  in  to  some  beau- 
tiful delicious  piece  of  music,  when  I  turn  from 
now  to  then.  It  was  all  so  dull,  and  without 
color,  and  sad  and  harsh.  My  father  and  broth- 
er never  could  agree."  (I  should  mention  that 
I  was  aware  of  one  of  Mr.  Braun's  sons  being 
still  alive.)  "Louis  was  very  harsh  to  father, 
and  not  forbearing.  I  don't  remember  what  it 
was  all  about ;  but  I  can  guess  now  that  Louis 
thought — well,  I  suppose  he  thought  my  father 
had  not  been  very  prudent  or  persevering ;  but 
I  know  he  was  harsh,  and  he  scolded,  and  his 
wife  scolded.  She  was  very  cold  and  hard  and 
religious,  and  she  always  scolded  me.  One  day, 
I  remember,  she  told  me  I  had  too  great  an  ap- 
petite, and  ate  too  much  for  a  little  beggar-girl ; 
and  I  cried  half  the  night  through,  and  then  got 
up  and  tried  to  steal  away,  to  drown  myself  from 
one  of  the  old  bridges.  But  an  old  night-watch- 
man found  me — I  remember  him  so  well ;  he 
had  a  horn  and  a  spear  of  some  kind — and  he 
brought  me  back ;  and  she  beat  me,  and  I  so 
hated  her !  At  last  father  said  he  would  go 
away,  and  I  was  delighted.  I  did  not  care 
where  we  went— any  where,  so  that  we  went 
away.  Louis,  indeed,  was  not  bad,  for  he  gave 
us  money  to  go ;  and  she  was  not  bad  either. 


I  think  she  must  have  been  a  good  woman,  but 
hard ;  and  then  she  had  children  of  her  own. 
and  we  were  mere  dependents.  So  I  came  to 
sing  in  Cologne,  Emanuel,  and  then  here  ;  and 
so  ends  my  long,  long  story." 

During  the  whole  of  the  story,  which  she  told 
in  a  dreamy  kind  of  tone,  her  eyes  and  lips  had 
marked  its  incidents  with  the  symphony  of  deep 
expression.  She  lived  the  old  life  quite  over 
again,  as  she  thus  ran  it  through  for  me.  I 
was  glad  when  the  story  was  done,  so  painful 
was  the  emotion  it  had  evidently  caused  her. 

"  How  happy  for  me,  dearest  Christina,  that 
you  did  not  go  to  America !  I  only  wish  I  had 
known  you  sooner,  and  were  rich  for  your  sake, 
and  you  should  never  have  sung  in  a  wretched 
saloon." 

"  I  sang  very  badly  in  the  place  here  lately ; 
but  I  think  it  was  because  the  people  there 
knew  nothing  about  singing,  and  there  was 
no  use  in  trying  to  sing  well. " 

"You  sang  only  too  well  for  me;  you  be- 
wildered me.  I  never  heard  such  singing  be- 
fore— indeed,  I  never  heard  any  singing  before, 
*n  the  true  sense." 

"Ah,  I  always  sang  my  best  when  you  were 
ihere.  I  saw  you  the  very  first  night,  and  sang 
for  you.  I  loved  you  even  then,  Emanuel, 
though  I  thought  you  came  with  no  good-will 
:o  me.  Was  I  not  angry  and  rude  ?  Ach  !  I 
hink  I  loved  you  always,  before  even  that  night 
— yes,  from  the  very  first." 

"And  will  always,  to  the  very  last?"  I  whis- 
pered. 

'Always— oh,  always— if  you  remain  still 
vhat  you  are,  what  I  believe  you  to  be.     And 
f  not,  then — " 
"  Then,  dearest  ?" 

"  Then  all  my  light  will  go  out,  Emanuel, 
and  I  shall  be  miserable  forever.  Oh,  if  I  ever 
hink  you  do  not  love  me  beyond  every  thing  in 
his  world,  then  I  shall  hate  you— no,  I  don't 
>elieve  I  ever  could  hate  you ;  but  I  shall  be 
vretched,  and  perhaps  make  both  of  us  unhap- 
>y  for  our  lives.  But  I  think  that  you  will 
lever  change ;  I  knew  from  the  very  first  that 
ou  would  some  time  come  to  love  me ;  and 
:ow  I  know  that  you  will  love  me  always.  Ah, 
ow  bright  life  is  now!" 

Her  eyes  sparkled  in  tears.  We  were  alone 
t  this  time  in  the  little  old  room.  She  seated 
erself  at  the  piano*  and  sang  one  of  her  Ger- 
man hymns  with  even  more  than  her  wonted 
assion  of  pathos.  I  sat  listening  in  the  deep- 
ning  twilight  of  the  calm  summer  evening, 
appy — transcendently  rapturous  and  happy. 

Those  were  bright  days.  I  have  lingered 
>ng  over  them  here,  although  they  sounded 
ut  as  the  overture  of  my  life,  and  reallv 
>rmed  no  part  of  the  drama  itself.  I  have 
ngered  over  them  because  they  were  so  hap- 
y,  and  because  they  were  so  brief. 

How  long  might  we  have  gone  on  thus  peace- 
illy  and  happily,  content  with  merely  playing 
"le  prelude  of  real  existence?  When  should 
e  have  married,  and  begun  the  business  of 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


23 


our  life-drama  in  good  earnest?  These  are 
speculations  which  I  used  to  be  fond  of  going 
over  and  over  in  my  mind,  but  which  I  can 
hardly  expect  any  body  else  to  follow  with  in- 
terest. I  dismiss  them  here  from  my  pages ; 
but  the  words  I  have  written  may  remain,  for 
they  will  serve  to  indicate  thus  early  that  the 
drama  was  never  played  out  as  we  had  pre- 
arranged it. 

The  first  discordant  note  which  Fate  struck 
in  was  the  death  of  Christina's  father.  The 
mild  old  man  passed  suddenly  but  very  quietly 
out  of  life.  One  evening  he  complained  of 
having  a  headache  and  cold  feet.  When  I 
came  that  night  a  doctor  was  with  him.  I  re- 
mained all  night.  Whatever  malady  had  seized 
my  poor  old  friend  kept  a  firm  hold.  Toward 
morning  he  talked  a  good  deal,  now  in  English, 
now  in  French,  now  in  German,  intelligibly  but 
not  coherently,  of  his  early  home,  his  wander- 
ings, his  lost  wife  (whom  now  he  saw  in  Chris- 
tina), his  family  one  by  one,  his  flowers.  He 
murmured  stray  scraps  of  German  poems: 
"Ucber  alien  Gipfeln  ist  Euh" — those  exqui- 
site, mournful,  consoling  lines  which  came  from 
Goethe's  soul  and  hung  late  upon  his  dying  lips  ; 
and  he  whispered  now  that  he  was  going  to 
learn  all  the  secrets  of  the  Creation ;  and  he 
repeated  faintly  two  lines  from  Uhland  : 
"  Da  sind  die  Tage  lang  geuug, 

Da  sind  die  Niichte  mild." 

Toward  the  end  he  brightened  up  into  clearer 
consciousness,  and  called  Christina  by  her  name. 
I  remember  with  a  peculiar  pang  how  he  touch- 
ed Christina's  hand  and  then  mine,  smiled  upon 
us  in  the  old  gentle  way,  full  of  trust  and  seren- 
ity, and  so  died.  He  looked  only  a  little  paler 
and  milder  in  death  than  in  life. 

After  this  came  a  long  sad  interval,  sweet- 
ened, I  must  own,  to  me  by  the  consciousness 
that  my  presence  and  my  love  must  be  still 
more  needful  to  Christina  than  before. 


the  close  of  summer  when  the  dusk  seems  to 
descend  suddenly  like  a  veil ;  and  as  I  looked 
admiringly  and  lovingly  on  her  face,  turned  in 
profile  to  me  and  gazing  westward,  the  roseate 
light  which  shone  on  it  suddenly  went  out,  and 
her  cheek  seemed  pale  and  melancholy.  As 
the  room  appeared  to  darken  she  looked  away 
from  where  the  light  in  the  west  had  been,  and 
turned  toward  me  smiling,  with  a  sweet,  sad 
expression,  which  I  see  even  now. 

"Emanuel,"  she  said,  "you  have  made  me 

happy_happy,  although  we  have  lost  my  poor 

father.     I  never  before  knew  what  it  was  to 

feel  even  •  an  hour's  happiness.     My  life  was 

always  cold  and  hard,  and  I  did  not  hope  for 

much  better  on  earth.     Now  I  believe  in  hap- 

>iness,  for  I  believe  in  love.     Do  you  know  that 

:  tried  all  I  could  to  love  poor  Edward  Lam- 

)ert ;  he  was  so  fond  of  me,  and  so  good ;  but 

I  could  not.     I  did  my  best:  I  wished   and 

rayed  to  love  him,  and  I  could  not.     I  do  not 

uiow  what  would  have  happened  to  me  but 

or  you.     I  know  I  never  could  have  staid  with 

my 'brother  in  that  place,  which  would    be 

strange  to  me  now.     I  think  I  should  have 

lad  to  find  out  the  old  bridge  where  I  was 

going  to  drown  myself  before,  and  complete 

the  work  this  time.     What  would  have  become 

of  me  if  I  had  gone  there  ?" 

"  What  would  have  become  of  we?"  I  asked, 
with  something  of  reproach  at  least  in  my 


CHAPTER  VI. 

CHRISTINA    AND    I. 

THE  same  little  room,  unchanged  save  for 
the  absence  of  one  of  its  old  inmates,  whose 
flute,  pipe,  and  books  stood  untouched  in  their 
familiar  former  places.  Christina  and  I  were 
alone.  We  had  been  talking  long  and  earn- 
estly. She  arose  and  went  to  the  window 
and"  looked  silently  and  thoughtfully  into  the 
soft  summer  night- air.  The  breath  of  an  ex- 
quisite day  still  haunted  somehow  the  very 
pavement  of  the  street  below,  and  seemed  to 
soften  the  hum  and  the  tread  of  the  people 
who  passed  under  our  window.  The  stars 
were  faint  in  the  violet  sky,  from  which  the 
light  of  day  had  not  yet  wholly  faded. 

Christina  remained  for  a  while  motionless 
and  silent,  one  hand  keeping  back  her  hair 
the  other  arm  resting  on  the  side  of  the  open 
window.  This  was  one  of  those  evenings  a 


voice. 
"I 


don't  know.  I  thought  perhaps  you 
would  have  been  as  happy  without  me— but 
stop,  don't  scold  me — indeed  I  don't  think  so 
now.  If  I  succeeded  in  the  world — 

And  didn't  fling  yourself  from  the  bridge." 
And  didn't  fling  myself  from  the  bridge— 
don't  laugh  at  me,  that  was  quite  a  possibility 
too — if  i  didn't  drown  myself,  but  lived  and 
succeeded,  and  made  a  great  noise  in  the 
world,  and  got  money,  then  you  should  have 
heard  of  me,  for  I  would  haVe  come  to  you. 
If  not,  then  you  should  never  have  heard  or 
known  any  thing  more  of  me.  I  think  that  is 
what  I  meant  to  do,  if  I  clearly  meant  to  do 
any  thing.  But  you  have  changed  all  that, 
Emanuel,  and  it  only  remains — " 

"It  only  remains  to  arrange  our  plans  and 
to  be  happy." 

"We  will  think  of  our  plans  to-morrow, 
when  we  are  a  little  more  calm  and  composed. 
All  this  has  come  on  us  rather  suddenly,  and  I 
scarcely  slept  last  night,  Emanuel,  with  think- 
ing of  you,  and  how  soon  I  must  leave  you. 
Then,  even  when  I  fell  asleep  at  last  toward 
morning,  I  had  such  a  horrid  dream  ;  I  dreamt 
that  you  yourself,  with  your  own  lips,  told  me 
calmly  I  had  better  go— that  we  had  better  sep- 
arate ;  and  I  awoke  in  misery.  But  that,  thank 
Heaven !  has  not  come  true,  and  I  feel  that  we 
are  acting  the  wisest  part.  Life  is  not  long 
enough  for  separation,  is  it,  dearest?  and  I 
know  my  Emanuel  will  not  suffer  loss  in  the 
end  by  his  sacrifice.  I  see  the  future  all  bright 
before  us— as  bright  as  the  sky  was  just  now — 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


that  is,  before  the  evening's  red  had  faded  an 
the  darkness  come  up." 

Sacrifice !  My  sacrifice  apparently  was  tha 
I  consented  to  be  loved  as  a  man  does  not  ex 
pect  to  be  loved  a  second  time  in  this  world. 

Let  me  explain  the  source  and  meaning  o 
the  conversation  I  have  just  described. 

The  death  of  Christina's  father  ought,  in  ac 
cordance  with  ordinary  usage  and  respect  fo 
public  opinion,  to  have  somewhat  changed  th 
manner  of  our  intercourse ;  but  it  did  not — 
still  spent  every  evening  with  Christina  as  be 
fore.  I  sat  beside  her  while  she  made  he 
mourning-dress  ;  I  was  beside  her  in  the  deep 
est  of  her  affliction,  and  in  its  gradual  subsi 
dence.  When  the  funeral  had  been  long  over 
and  the  clergyman  and  one  or  two  other  friend 
who  came  out  of  mere  kindness  had  ceased  t( 
visit  her,  I  came  regularly  every  evening,  an 
sat  for  hours  with  her  just  as  before.  I  can 
say  literally  that  all  the  time  I  did  not  give  tc 
business  or  to  sleep  I  gave  to  her.  I  alway 
left  her  with  reluctance,  though  the  separation 
was  but  for  a  few  hours.  I  always  hastenec 
eagerly  to  her,  although  only  a  few  hours  hac 
passed  since  our  last  meeting.  We  walked 
together  of  evenings  on  the  hills  and  by  the 
sea,  and  watched  the  line  of  light  that  streamec 
from  the.  west  until  it  seemed  to  fade  into  th 
waves  and  the  night  and  the  stars  came  up.  l 
learned  from  her  to  know  each  constellation 
that  lights  our  northern  horizon.  Her  father 
had  taught  her,  like  himself,  to  live  among  the 
stars  and  love  them.  I  loved  to  hear  her  talk 
as  much  as  to  hear  her  sing — ay,  "far  above 
singing."  My  whole  nature  was  quickened 
and  purified  by  hers ;  it  was  the  old,  old  story 
of  Cymon  and  Iphigenia  over  again. 

Of  course  it  must  have  been  dreadfully  im- 
proper, not  to  say  dangerous,  thus  to  spend 
long  evenings  after  evenings  together  and 
alone.  But  we  never  thought  it  so,  and  indeed 
never  thought  about  the  matter  at  all.  I  know 
that  nothing  could  have  been  purer  than  our 
love,  more  innocent  than  our  intercourse.  I 
do  not  recommend  that  sort  of  thing  as  a  rule 
— I  see  all  the  danger  of  it ;  I  see  that  the  two 
very  best  people  in  the  world— and  we,  good 
lack,  were  not  even  the  second-best — might 
have  found  reason  to  repent  such  heedless  self- 
confidence.  But  it  is  certain  that  we  trod  the 
furnace  unscathed — nay,  that  we  did  not  even 
know  we  were  girt  with  fire  from  which  ordi- 
nary eyes  would  say  there  was  no  escaping.  I 
do  not  well  know  what  preserved  us  ;  perhaps 
our  very  unconsciousness  of  danger,  perhaps 
poetry,  perhaps  music,  perhaps  sentimentality, 
perhaps  that  generous  subtle  fire  of  youthful 
love  which  has  so  little  of  the  animal  oil  in  its 
composition.  I  can  only  say  that,  when  we 
were  driven  out  of  our  terrestrial  paradise,  we 
had  at  least  no  cause  to  blush,  or  hang  our 
heads,  or  cover  ourselves,  because  of  shame. 

Of  course,  however,  this  was  not  the  view  of 
the  matter  taken  by  our  neighbors.  It  was  not 
likely  that  in  such  a  miserable  little  town,  en- 


slaved by  the  judgment  of  Mrs.  Grundy,  con- 
duct like  ours  could  escape  gossip  and  criticism. 
The  people  living  in  the  same  house  with  Chris- 
tina knew  of  our  meetings;  pupils  of  Chris- 
tina's called  occasionally  in  the  evening  and 
found  us  together ;  many  good-natured  persons 
began  to  talk  about  us,  of  whom,  I  can  say  in 
all  sincerity,  we  had  never  conversed.  This 
kind  of  talk  must  at  last  reach  Christina's  ears ; 
and  it  did. 

One  evening  when  I  came  as  usual  I  was  told 
that  she  was  not  at  home ;  and  I  was  much  sur- 
prised, knowing  how  few  acquaintances  she  had, 
and  how  little  she  cared  to  visit  any  of  them. 
The  next  evening  the  same  thing  occurred. 
The  next  day  I  wrote  her  a  letter  asking,  some- 
what warmly,  for  an  explanation.  I  received 
a  reply  full  of  love  and  tenderness,  begging  of 
me  not  to  come  that  evening,  but  promising  to 
write  again.  I  did  not  grow  jealous,  or  sus- 
picious, or  angry.  I  knew  that  Christina's 
heart  lay  open  to  me;  but  I  became  alarmed, 
expectant  of  some  evil  news  ;  restless,  sad.  I 
think  I  had"  from  the  beginning  a  foreboding 
that  something  disagreeable  would  reach  us 
from  her  brother.  Immediately  on  poor  Mr. 
Braun's  death  Christina  had  written  to  her 
brother,  acquainting  him  with  the  event,  de- 
scribing exactly  and  frankly  her  own  position 
and  prospects,  and  asking  simply  for  any  advice 
he  could  give.  For  weeks  no  answer  came ; 
but  we  were  not  much  surprised.  In  those 
days  railways  did  not  traverse  East  Prussia 
and  connect  Ostend  with  St.  Petersburg. 

At  last  I  received  a  little  note  from  Christina, 
written  in  apparent  haste,  and  asking  me  to  see 
tier  that  evening.  I  went  at  the  earliest  possi- 
ble moment.  It  was  the  evening  with  which 
this  chapter  opens. 

I  hurried  up  stairs,  and  found  her  door  open. 
[  went  in,  and  saw  her  alone,  kneeling  on  the 
loor,  and  engaged  in  packing  up  some  clothes, 
books,  and  music.  She  looked  up,  and  there 
was  so  sad  an  expression  in  her  face  that  I  posi- 
tively started. 

"Christina,  my  dearest,"  I  said,  kneeling  on 
he  ground  beside  her,  "what  on  earth  has  hap- 
pened? Why  do  you  look  so  sad — and  why 
vould  you  not  see  me  before  ?" 

"I  am  going  away,  Emanuel,"  she  replied, 
n  a  very  faltering  voice. 

' '  Going  away !  Going  where  ?  Away  from 
me?  No,  that  I  know  you  are  not." 

"Ah,  yes;  it  is  quite  true.  I  am  going  to 
Reichsberg — I  must  go!" 

"Never!  you  shall  not!" 

"I  must,  indeed.  See,  Emanuel,  here  is 
ly  brother's  letter.  Read  what  he  writes." 

I  took  the  letter  and  tried  to  read  it.     It  was 

n  German,  written  in  a  dreadful   character, 

vhich    danced  before   my  eyes  maddeningly. 

ifter  some  impatient  bungling  efforts  I  thrust 

into  her  hand. 

"Read  it,  Christina,"  I  said;  "and  let  me 
now  the  meaning  of  all  this,  for  Heaven's 
ake!" 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


25 


She  read  me  the  letter.  It  was  long,  well- 
meaning,  cold  but  not  unkindly,  intensely  mor- 
al, pious,  and  philistinish.  It  expressed  well- 
regulated  regret  for  the  death  of  Mr.  Braun, 
but  it  made  it  a  duty  to  allude  rather  pointedly 
to  his  faults  and  his  weaknesses.  It  showed 


how  these  faults  and  weaknesses  had  now  left 
the  daughter,  whom  he,  the  father,  so  profess- 
ed to  love,  homeless  and  unprovided  with  any 
means,  at  scarcely  nineteen  years  of  age,  in  a 
far-off  foreign  country.  It  expressed  a  hope 
that  Mr.  Braun  had  found  in  dying  that  spiritual 


26 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


comfort  and  faith  which  he  ostentatiously  re 
jected  during  his  lifetime. 

All  this  I  listened  to  somewhat  impatient 
as  Christina  put  into  half-intelligible  Englis 
its  long  sentences.  But  the  point  of  the  stor 
lay  in  the  concluding  passages,  and  these  soo 
secured  my  whole  attention.  Louis  Braun  di 
approved  and  deplored  the  kind  of  life  his  sist< 
had  led  as  a  singer,  utterly  demurred  to  her  ide 
of  ultimately  going  on  the  stage,  and  enjoinec 
nay  insisted,  on  her  immediately  leaving  En 
gland  and  placing  herself  under  his  protectior 
He  inclosed  some  abominable  Prussian  note 
for  the  purpose  of  assisting  her  to  undertak 
the  journey,  which  he  recommended  her  to  mak 
by  way  of  steamer  or  sailing  vessel  from  Londo 
or  Hull  to  Dantzic. 

"It's  kind  of  Louis,"  Christina  stammerei 
out,  when  she  had  read  to  the  end.  "  You  see 
Emanuel,  he  has  a  good  heart,  and  means  fo 
the  best.  I  can  do  nothing  else.  I  must  go 
and  I  will  help  him  in  his  business,  and  atten< 
to  his  shop.  But  I  will  go  on  the  stage  an< 
sing  yet  one  day,  for  all  that." 

"You  shall  not  go  to  him!"  I  exclaimed 
"You  shall  be  the  servant  of  no  brother,  am 
attend  to  no  shop.  What  right  has  your  broth 
er  to  control  you  ?  What  has  he  ever  done  fo 
you,  that  he  should  attempt  to  order  you  abou 
in  that  way?  What  account  of  your  movements 
have  you  to  render  to  him  ?  Leave  it  to  me 
I'll  write  to  him." 

"  Louis   knows   not  one  word  of  English 
and,  dear  Emanuel,  I  don't  think  your  German 
would  be  quite  certain  to  explain  itself  clearly 
to  him." 

"Now,  I  know  you  don't  think  of  going,"  I 
said,  warmly  clasping  her;  "you  never  could 
smile  in  that  way  if  you  thought  of  leaving  me. 
Write  yourself,  then,  and  tell  your  brother  that 
he  may  go — I  mean  that  when  you  really  need- 
ed his  protection  he  did  not  ofter  it,  and  that 
now  you  don't  want  it,  and  will  have  none  of  it. 
No,  don't  write  that— of  course  you  would  not 
— but  write  and  tell  him  you  will  not  and  can 
not  go." 

"But  what  can  we  do,  Emanuel  ?"  she  asked, 
looking  up  at  me  with  her  large  eyes,  now  all 
sadness  and  seriousness.  "  My  brother's  letter 
is  not  all ;  but  my  pupils— I  did  not  like  to  tell 
you  before — are  all  dropping  away.  Yes,  it  is 
quite  true;  soon,  I  fear,  I  shall  have  none.  The 
people  here  talk  so  much  ;  and  now  they  talk 
of  us,  who  never  did  them  any  harm.  Yester- 
day a  lady  who  had  always  been  my  good  friend 
took  away  her  three  girls.  After  "the  holidays 
some  always  do  not  come  back ;  and  this  time 
I  shall  have  very,  very  few.  I  met  Miss  Griffin 
a  week  ago,  and  she  spoke  very  strangely  and 
coldly  to  me.  I  do  not  care  about  my  brother 
much— I  hardly  know  him  at  all;  but  I  see  that 
I  had  better  go  to  him,  and  even  for  your  sake 
I  must  go ;  and  perhaps — oh,  perhaps,  my  own 
dear  Emanuel — we  may  meet  once  again." 

"Once  again!  We  will  never  part — never! 
Why  can  not  we  at  once  put  a  stop  to  the  talk  of 


all  these  people  ?  Why  can  not  we  be  married 
now — to-morrow  ?  We  do  not  want  much  to 
make  us  happy.  Listen,  Christina — hear  what 
a  salary  I  have ;  in  a  place  like  this  we  might 
live  on  it  forever ;"  and  I  whispered  its  amount 
—about  as  much  as  a  fast  young  Londoner  might 
spend  in  gloves  and  cigars. 

Christina  made  no  answer.  Was  she  over- 
whelmed by  the  largeness  of  my  means,  or  ren- 
dered aghast  by  their  smallness  ? 

"We  shall  be  the  happiest  people  in  the 
world,"  I  urged.  "You  can  give  music-les- 
sons, if  you  like ;  or  we  will  give  concerts  to- 
gether. Why,  the  singers  at  that  concert  in 
the  Assembly  Rooms  last  night  were  good-for- 
nothing  humbugs,  I  have  been  told;  and  yet 
people  paid  to  hear  them  just  because  they 
came  from  London.  I  am  sure  no  one  of  them 
had  a  voice  any  thing  like  yours.  We  only 
want  to  get  known.  We  can't  give  musical  en- 
tertainments together  now,  that's  quite  clear; 
but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Emanuel  Temple  Banks  would 
sound  famously,  nicht  wahr?"  said  I,  endeavor- 
~ng  to  become  jocular.  "Or  suppose  I  come 
out  as  a  blind  singer,  like  Vult,  in  the  story — 
Richter's  story— your  poor  father  read  to  us  so 
patiently  when  we  were  not  listening  to  half  of 
t?  Suppose  I  be  a  blind  singer,  and  you  my 
wife  or  sister,  sustaining  and  guiding  ine  ?  I 
hink  it  would  draw  splendidly." 

"  Nonsense,  Emanuel ;  you  must  not  talk 
such  nonsense,"  said  Christina,  smiling  never- 
heless,  though  perhaps  a  watery  smile.  "  We 
can  not  be  married  yet ;  it  would  be  too  rash  ; 
ind  what  would  people  say  ?" 

4 '  What  should  we  care  ?    Let  them  say  what 

hey  please.     It  doesn't  appear  that  the  people 

vho  concern  themselves  about  us  say  such  very 

nattering  things  already  that  we  need  court  their 

good  opinion.    Let  them  speak  well  or  ill  of  us 

— there  is  a  world  elsewhere,"  I  exclaimed,  in 

plendid  Coriolanus  fashion. 

"There  is,  there  is  indeed,  Emanuel!"  she 
aid,  springing  up  and  with  brightening  eyes ; 
'  there  is  a  world  elsewhere,  thank  Heaven ! 
which  is  not  like  this  narrow  and  miserable  lit- 
le  place.  Oh,  who  would  live  here  and  stag- 
late,  when  there  are  places  Avhere  life  has  a 
hance  of  success!" 

I  saw  that  she  was  yielding,  and  I  pressed 
tiy  advantage.  I  clasped  her  in  my  arms,  and 
owed  I  would  not  release  her  until  she  had 
ledged  herself  never  to  leave  me. 

"How  could  I  refuse  any  longer?"  she  said 
t  last.  "You  have  prevailed,  my  own  ;  ah,  I 
m  afraid  I  Avas  only  too  willing  that  you  should 
revail.  If  you  are  not  unwilling  to  sacrifice 
ourself  for  a  poor  singing  girl,  what  can  she 
o  but  accept  the  sacrifice  when  she  loves  you 
o  dearly  as  I  do  ?" 

It  was  then  that  she  gently  withdrew  from 
te  for  a  moment,  and  went  to  the  window,  as 
e  saw  her  at  the  opening  of  this  chapter. 
Dost  thou  look  at  the  stars,  oh  my  star  ?" 
We  spoke  but  little  of  our  plans  and  pros- 
ects  that  night ;  we  were  too  happy  for  talk. 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


27 


Strange  thing  in  mortal  life,  we  knew  we  were 
happy !  It  is  not  retrospect  alone  which  throws 
for  me  a  golden  glory  round  that  unforgotten 
evening ;  I  knew  at  the  hour  that  a  golden  at- 
mosphere floated  round  us  both. 

Christina  had  utterly  flung  away  the  early 
doubt  and  despondency  of  the  evening,  and  re- 
turned to  the  old  joyous  self-confidence.  She 
looked  at  the  future  with  the  brightest  eyes. 

"No  chance  of  our  failing,  Emanuel,"  she 
said,  ecstatically. 

"And  even  if  we  do  fail,  my  dearest,"  I  re- 
plied, "  what  then  ?  We  shall  be  none  the  less 
happy.  I  do  not  care  one  rush  for  any  success 
in  life  while  we  can  live  for  each  other  and  be 
happy.  We  only  value  life  itself  that  we  may 
love  each  other  and  be  happy." 

She  smiled  a  triumphant  smile.  "Have  no 
fear,"  she  said  ;  "we  shall  have  love  and  hap- 
piness and  success  too.  I  know  we  shall;  I 
see  the  future  as  clear  as  to-day.  Now,  dear- 
est, you  must  go.  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow 
night,  shall  I  not  ?" 

Needless  to  give  my  answer — rather,  I  should 
say,  to  describe  it.  As  I  was  leaving,  my  eye 
fell  upon  the  trunk  which  she  had  been  packing 
when  I  came  in. 

"  You  may  undo  your  work  of  packing  now, 
liebchen,"  I  said,  smilingly. 

"Nay,  is  it  worth  while?"  she  asked,  smiling 
with  a  significance  I  did  not  understand.  "  Re- 
member the  world  elsewhere." 

Need  I  say  how  we  parted  ?  Need  I  tell  how 
often  I  walked  backward  and  forward  under 
her  window  that  night  ?  Need  I  say  that  I  felt 
the  happiest  and  the  proudest  of  human  creat- 
ures ?  Need  I  say  how  I  lay  awake,  and  tossed 
half  the  night  through,  recalling  every  word, 
every  glance,  every  kiss ;  how  I  shaped  out  plan 
after  plan  for  our  future  path  of  life ;  how  I  felt 
all  the  passion  and  the  ecstasy,  without  any  of 
the  doubts  and  feverish  fears  and  torturing 
pangs,  of  love? 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    PATHS   DIVIDE. 

I  HAVE  already  said  that  the  one  thing  which 
gave  me  any  uneasiness  as  to  the  future  was 
Christina's  passionate  desire  to  go  on  the  stage 
This  had  not,  indeed,  been  a  discordant  note  in 
our  harmony ;  but  it  was  one  I  always  endeav- 
ored not  to  touch.  I  kept  the  question  as  mucl 
as  I  could  out  of  sight ;  I  compromised  with 
it,  made  myself  believe  it  would  arrange  itself 
somehow.  In  fact,  I  was  afraid  of  it,  but  stil" 
kept  hoping  it  would  come  to  nothing ;  for  th< 
more  and  more  I  loved  Christina,  the  more  anc 
more  I  wished  to  keep  her  wholly  to  myself 
the  more  jealous  I  grew  of  any  art,  any  profes 
sion,  which  could  divide  her  thoughts  with  mi 
and  my  love.  I  could  have  lived  in  a  deser 
island  with  her  forever — yes,  I  still  think 
could — and  never  wearied  of  her,  or  longed  fo 
other  companionship.  Doubtless  to  most  per 


ons  such  a  profession  will  seem  merely  the 
onscious  or  unconscious  exaggeration  of  senti- 
nent;  doubtless  in  their  case  it  would  be  so. 
f  m  speaking  of  myself — of  my  own  heart,  and 
f  what  I  know.  I  could  have  lived  with  her 
— we  two  alone— a  long  life  through,  and  known 

0  weariness  or  change  if  she  knew  none.    The 
rst  strong  emotion  of  all  my  life  was  love  for 
er ;  and  the  more  I  grew  to  love  her,  the  more 
ealous  I  became  of  the  art  which  she  so  loved. 

I  should  have  been  glad  to  compromise  for  a 
ife  of  music-teaching  and  singing  at  concerts 
nd  oratorios,  and  such  milder  and  safer  paths 
)f  the  lyric  art.  Indeed,  I  had  myself  had  sev- 
ral  engagements  at  local  performances  of  the 
dnd,  and  was,  as  I  have  mentioned  already, 
becoming  a  sort  of  small,  very  small,  celebrity. 
I  was  saving  a  little  money  to  begin  married 
ife  withal,  and  was  very  economical  and  care- 
jil,  my  whole  heart  being  set  on  one  object ; 
nevertheless,  the  general  impression  of  respect- 
able and  good  people  in  our  circle  still  was  that 
[  was  simply  going  to  the  devil. 

Now  the  attorney  in  whose  office  I  daily 
worked  was  a  very  respectable  man.  He  was 
a  pious  man,  and  sang  very  loud  in  church.  He 
was  also  a  very  pompous  man.  He  had  a  very 
respectable,  pious,  and  pompous  wife.  He  con- 
sorted with  the  rector ;  he  sometimes  dined  with 
the  local  lord ;  and  at  the  annual  flower-show 
lis  wife  was  always  taken  notice  of  and  politely 
spoken  to  by  an  evangelical  countess,  and  by 
the  wives  of  the  county  members. 

The  very  morning  after  I  had  made  my  pact 
with  Christina,  I  was  summoned  to  my  employ- 
er's room  almost  immediately  on  his  reaching  the 
office.  When  I  came  into  the  presence  of  Mr. 
Bollington — that  was  his  name — I  saw,  by  the 
very  way  in  which  he  settled  his  neck  into  his 
collar,  that  something  was  up.  I  may  say  that 

1  never  liked  Mr.  Bollington  ;  his  manner  some- 
how seemed  always  to  convey  to  me  the  idea 
that  he  regarded  a  salaried  clerk  as  simply  a 
poor  devil. 

"  Oh,  ah,  Mr.  Banks,"  he  began.  "  Yes ;  I 
want  to  speak  to  you.  Close  the  door.  Thank 
you  ;  that'll  do.  Mr.  Banks,  I  hear  you  are 
getting  very  much  into  the  way  of  singing  at 
nights  at  concerts  and  oratorios,  and  all  that 
kind  of  thing.  Now,  that  is  not  quite  a  legal 
sort  of  thing,  nor  quite  respectable  in  our  line 
of  business ;  and  I  am  rather  afraid  it  will  tell 
against  us,  you  know.  I  am  very  particular, 
Mr.  Banks,  as  you  know.  Law  is  rather  a  par- 
ticular sort  of  business.  People  say  law  is  jeal- 
ous, and  won't  have  any  rival,  don't  they?  I 
think  some  poet  or  novelist,  or  somebody,  says 
something  of  the  kind.  I  don't  think  it  will  do, 
Mr.  Banks  ;  I  don't  indeed.  Law  is  drier  and 
duller  than  music;  but  I  think  you'll  find  it 
better  in  the  long-run." 

I  was  a  good  deal  embarrassed  by  this  ad- 
dress. I  had  no  respect  for  Mr.  Bollington ;  I 
knew  him  to  be  merely  a  stupid,  respectable  old 
ass;  but  respectability  has  somehow  an  awful 
sort  of  halo  of  divine  right  yet  lingering  about 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


it,  and  it  impresses  the  Bohemian  more  than  h 
cares  to  acknowledge.  I,  an  embryo  Bohemian 
had  always  to  make  a  little  mental  struggle  t 
assert  myself  against  this  respectable  membe 
of  society.  Now,  however,  there  were  othe 
reasons  to  embarrass  me ;  he  seemed  actual! 
inspired  with  a  purpose  to  destroy  all  my  proj 
ects. 

I  stammered  out  something  about  being  fon 
of  music,  and  not  seeing  any  harm  in  such  de 
votion. 

"  Pardon  me ;  I  have  not  said  there  was  an 
harm.     A  taste  for  music  is  very  respectable 
and  I  am  the  last  man  in  the  world  likely  t 
find  fault  with  an  inclination  which  some  of  th 
most  respectable  persons  I  know,  even  in  mj 
profession,  cultivate — in   a   manner  which,  in 
fact,  adds  to  their  respectability,  I  may  say 
But  that  is  in  an  amateur  way,  Mr.  Banks ;  in 
an  amateur  way.     It  is  quite  different  when 
one  comes  to  be  a  professional  performer ;  anc 
I  hear,  Mr.  Banks,  that  you  have  been  going 
quite  into  the  professional  line  of  late.     Now 
you  have  not  consulted  me  on  the  subject,  or 
ascertained  whether  I  considered  such  an  occu- 
pation quite  consistent  with  your  position  here 
and  I  have  therefore  found  it  necessary  to  senc 
for  you,  and,  in  fact,  to  open  the  subject  my- 
self." 

"I  really  didn't  suppose,"  I  said,  "that  you 
could  have  any  objection  to  my  improving  my 
income  by  any  means — any  honorable  means, 
of  course — which  did  not  interfere  with  my 
character  or  my  business  here.  I  have  not 
been  inattentive  to  the  office." 

"  Pardon  me ;  I  have  made  no  charge  of  the 
kind." 

"I  do  not  see  why  one  may  not  have  differ- 
ent occupations  at  different  hours  of  the  day." 
"In  a  general  way  there  may  be  no  objec- 
tion. Many  occupations  admit  of  such  com- 
bination ;  but  Ave  are  now  speaking  of  a  partic- 
ular case.  This  firm,  Mr.  Banks,  has  a  char- 
acter for  strict  attention  to  business,  and  busi- 
ness of  a  peculiar  and  exclusively  respectable 
kind.  I  don't  say  that  in  a  certain  kind  of  low 
criminal  business,  for  example,  there  is  neces- 
sarily any  reason  why  a  solicitor  should  object 
to  his  clerk  singing  at  concerts  after  office- 
hours.  I  think  it  quite  possible  that  such  sing- 
ing and  a  certain  kind  of  criminal  business  might 
combine  very  well.  But  ours  is  not  a  business 
of  that  class,  Mr.  Banks.  Our  clients  are  of 
quite  a  different  order  of  life,  and  they  have 
strong  and  very  proper  views  on  the  all-import- 
ance of  respectability." 

"But  really,  Mr.*  Bollington"  —  I  had  now 
quite  reasserted  myself;  stupidity  had  washed 
all  the  imposing  gilt  off  respectability,  and  I 
could  have  laughed  at  or  sworn  at  it — "really, 
Mr.  Bollington,  I  don't  quite  see  that  I  am 
bound  to  give  up  every  thing  to  such  views." 

"  Not  bound  at  all,  Mr.  Banks ;  certainly  not 
bound.  You  are  not  an  articled  clerk,  and 
are  quite  free  to  act  as  you  please.  Let  the 
conversation  close  for  the  present.  Be  so  good 


as  to  think  the  matter  over.  I  am  sure  yon 
understand  my  determination.  You  can  there- 
fore decide  for  yourself,  and  let  me  know,  and 
we  can  recur  to  the  subject,  if  necessary,  say  the 
day  after  to-morrow.  And  now,  Mr.  Banks, 
about  the  papers  in  the  case  of  Davys  and  Pon- 
typool,  if  you  please. " 

This  was  of  course  an  ultimatum.  A  greater 
contretemps  could  hardly  have  occurred.  All 
my  plans  for  the  present  were  based  on  that 
very  combination  of  music  and  law  which  Mr. 
Bollington  declared  to  be  only  possible,  if  at  all, 
in  the  case  of  a  very  low  sort  of  criminal  busi- 
ness. This  was  a  sharp  and  sudden  blow  to 
me ;  and  I  had  the  whole  day  to  bear  it  before 
I  could  pour  out  my  bad  news  and  my  feelings 
to  Christina. 

Grimly  enough  I  went  to  her  lodgings  that 
evening.  I  thought  the  very  sky  looked  gray 
above1  me  ;  and  Christina's  gladsome,  confident 
eyes  were  a  sort  of  new  pang  and  reproach  to 
me. 

"Oh,  Emanuel,  I  am  so  delighted  to  hear 
it!"  was  the  reply  with  which  she  broke  out 
when,  with  a  sad  face,  I  had  got  through  my 
dismal  news.  "  I  am  delighted  from  my  heart 
to  hear  it !  Why  should  you  stay  in  so  miser- 
able a  place,  and  be  paid  a  few  wretched  shil- 
lings a  week,  you  who  are  better  than  them  all ; 
you  with  your  voice — and  your  talents — for  you 
know  I  never  would  care  for  mere  voice  ?  No ; 
you  are  rid  of  it  all  now,  and  are  free.  Now 
you  will  have  to  throw  your  soul  into  the  art 
you  are  fitted  for,  my  dear  Emanuel.  Ill  news, 
dear !  This  is  the  best  and  brightest  of  news 
;o  Christina.  I  always  feared  that  you  would 
36  content  to  work  and  wait  here,  and  I  have 
lad  enough  of  working  and  waiting.  You  are 
so  easily  contented — oh,  far  too  easily  content- 
ed 1  but  only  because  you  are  modest  of  your 
alents,  and  do  not  know  what  you  deserve  and 
what  you  can  be,  as  I  do.  No,  no  ;  my  Eman- 
uel will  be  no  more  a  slave,  but  an  artist.  Tell 
lim  so,  and  be  free." 

There  was  something  pitiful  to  me  in  hearing 
he  enthusiastic  girl  run  on  in  this  wild  way. 

"Alas,  Christina,"  I  said,  "it  is  not  so  easy 
o  make  a  great  way  in  the  world  as  you  think 
— you  girls,  with  your  vivid  imagination  and 
your  confidence.  You  see  me  with  eyes  which 
ill  guide  nobody  else.  Think  how  difficult  it 
s  to  get  on  in  this  place." 

"In  this  place !  Yes ;  but  who  would  think 
f  this  place  ?  Leave  it,  my  Emanuel !  Lon- 
on  and  Paris — these  are  the  places  for  us. 
^Vhy  delay  here  at  all  ?  why  not  go  to  London 
t  once,  and  together  ?  why,  dearest  Emanuel, 
'hy?" 

Her  impatience  rose  to  something  like  wild- 
ess. 

"Because,  my  love,"  I  said,  looking  as  wise 
nd  as  cheerful  as  I  could  contrive  to  do — "be- 
ause  in  London  people  who  have  neither  mon- 
y  nor  friends  may  have  to  starve." 

"  But  we  have  some  money.  I  have  saved 
ome  ;  a  little— and  not  so  very  little.  See  !" 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


And  she  showed  me  in  triumph  a  few  poor 
sovereigns  heaped  up  in  a  drawer,  where  any 
body  who  chanced  to  enter  her  room  might 
have  found,  and,  if  so  inclined,  stolen  them. 
I  could  hardly  keep  back  my  tears — I  was  only 
a  boy,  after  all ;  and  there  was  something  un- 
speakably pitiful  and  touching  in  the  pride  and 
confidence  built  upon  the  few  poor  golden  coins. 
"My  dearest,  your  money  and  mine  would 
not  keep  us  long  in  London.  People  must  en- 
deavor to  make  a  beginning  where  they  have 
friends." 

"Then  you  are  content  to  give  up  your  ca- 
reer ;  give  up  your  chance  of  becoming  a  great 
artist— as  I  know  you  would  be?" 

"No,  not  give  up,  my  own  Christina,  but 
just  wait  only  a  little  for  a  better  chance. 
Listen,  you  wild  girl ;  we  must  give  up  some- 
thing— " 

"But  listen,  Emanuel.  I  have  set  my  very 
soul  on  being  a  great  singer,  and  on  your  being 
one  too.  You  may  think  me  a  mad  creature ; 
but  I  know  that  in  this  I  am  wiser  than  you. 
Don't  stop  on  the  way,  and  don't  be  afraid.  I 
am  not  afraid  ;  why  should  you — a  man  ?" 

"You  are  not  afraid,"  I  said,  taking  both 
her  hands,  and  trying  to  pet  her  into  calmness, 
"  because  you  are  a  generous,  imaginative,  dar- 
ling girl,  who,  once  you  love  a  man,  think  the 
world  must  see  him  .as  you  do,  and  that  he 
must  turn  out  something  great.  I  know  more 
of  the  world,  and  of  myself,  than  you  do. 
only  ask  that  we  should  be  patient  for  the  sake 
of  each  other.  I  can  not  do  any  thing  which 
might  make  you  unhappy.  You  may  be  ready 
to  sacrifice  yourself;  but  don't  ask  me  to  sacri- 
fice you." 

"Listen,  Emanuel,"  she  said,  disengaging 
her  hands  from  mine,  and  then  laying  one  arm 
on  my  shoulder  and  looking  earnestly,  implor- 
ingly at  me  (I  see  her  deep  dark  eyes  and  eager 
trembling  lips  even  now  this  moment);  "do 
not  talk  of  waiting  and  of  patience,  and  of 
living  a  life  of  dull,  stupid  plodding  in  this 
hateful  place.  Only  last  evening  you  appealed 
to  me — and  persuaded  me ;  let  me  now  per 
suade  you.  Do  you  think  me  bold  to  speak  in 
this  way  ?  Yes,  I  am  bold  now,  because  I  lov 
you  so,  because  you  are  all  in  the  world  to  me 
and  I  tremble  to  think  of  our  separation." 

"Separation?     Who  speaks  of  separation 
What  could  separate  us  ?" 

"You  do  not  know;  I  do  not  know;  anj 
thing,  any  delay  —  a  night's  reflection  ma) 
change  our  fortunes,  may  change  our  hearts 
I  tremble  to  hear  you  talk  as  if  you  only  wishe< 
to  cling  to  this  place  forever." 

"And  I  tremble  to  hear  you  speak  as  if  am 
bition,  and  not  love,  were  your  impulse,  Chris 
tina!  Yes,  I  could  be  happy  with  you  here 
even  here,  forever!" 

"But  let  us  not  talk  of  that.  I  could  no 
see  you  condemned  to  an  ignoble,  stupid  lif 
here;  I  love  you  far  too  deeply.  Your  am 
bition  is  mine ;  your  success  would  be  mine 
Oh,  Emanuel,  love  me  and  my  ambition  too,  o 


ou  can  not  love  me,  you  can  not  understand 
me  at  all!" 

If  the  choice  were  between  your  love  and 
our  ambition,"  I  said,  sullenly,  "I  know  which 
rould  win." 

You  can't  divide  them ;  they  are  one  and 

same.  They  are  as  my  heart  and  my  soul. 
)h,  Emanuel,  you  know  I  love  you.  I  have 
o  one  on  earth  whom  I  care  for  but  you." 

"And  yet  if  it  were  a  choice  between  giving 
ip  your  chance  of  a  career,  your  dream  of  a 
areer" — i  was  now  bitterly  jealous  of  her  am- 
dtion,  and  spoke  in  almost  savage  tones — "yon 
vould  throw  me  away  without  a  thought.  Do 
•ou  call  that  love  ?" 

"  No,"  she  replied,  vehemently,  and  turning 
rom  me,  "I  do  not.  But  I  loved  an  ambi- 
ious  man,  a  brave  man,  an  artist,  and  not  a 
lave." 

Had  she  struck  me  in  the  face  I  could  not 
have  felt  the  blow  more  heavily.  A  surprised, 
passionate,  injured  cry  was  breaking  from  my 
ips.  I  repressed  it  with  all  the  force  of  energy 
;  could  call  up ;  but  I  turned  away,  and,  sit- 
ing on  the  nearest  chair,  covered  my  face  with 
my  hands. 

I  do  not  know  how  many  minutes  or  seconds 
I  had  sat  thus.  It  seemed  to  me  a  long  inter- 
al  of  bewildered  pain  and  bitterness.  I  felt 
at  last  a  hand  laid  on  mine,  and  a  sweet,  pite- 
ous voice  murmured  "Emanuel!"  I  allowed 
he  hand  that  covered  my  face  to  be  drawn 
away ;  and  then  I  saw  that  Christina  was  kneei- 
ng at  my  feet,  and  looking  up  at  me  with  eyes 
full  of  tears. 

;'0h,  forgive  me!"  she  exclaimed;  "my 
dear,  dear  Emanuel,  forgive  me ;  I  did  not 
know  what  I  was  saying." 

"  You  have  cruelly  misinterpreted  me,  Chris- 
tina." 

"  I  have  indeed ;  and  that  is  the  second  time 
in  our  lives  I  have  done  so.  But  I  will  do  so 
no  more.  How  could  I  use  such  cruel,  shame- 
ful, false  words  to  you !  But  I  was  disappoint- 
ed ;  oh,  so  bitterly  disappointed !  and  I  was 
mad." 

"Dearest  Christina,  you  know — if  you  do 
not,  at  least  Heaven'knows — that  I  only  think 
of  your  happiness,  that  I  only  shrink  from  ex- 
posing you  to  utter  poverty." 

"But  what  else  have  I  suffered  from  my 
birth  ?  I  am  well  used  to  poverty.  Ah,  if  you 
did  but  know  all !  I  prefer  any  poverty,  even 
alone,  to  going  to  my  brother.  Why  should  I 
fear  it  with  you  ?  But  I  will  not  talk  in  that 
way  any  more ;  I  was  foolish  and  wild ;  and  you 
were  right  not  to  heed  my  folly.  You  are  calm 
and  have  sense,  and  you  know  the  world." 

"You  are  a  true  woman,  a  true  heroine,"  I 
said,  my  bitterness  wholly  melted  away  by  her 
sweetness  and  submission,  "  and  you  would 
rather  have  the  courage  which  springs  with- 
out counting  the  consequences  than  that  which 
calculates  and  waits.  So  would  I,  perhaps,  if 
the  consequences  only  affected  myself  alone ; 
but  a  man  who  has  the  happiness  of  the  wo- 


30 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


man  he  loves  placed  in  his  hands  must  no 
plunge  headlong  with  her  and  himself  too 
No,  my  dearest,  the  courage  which  endures  i 
often  the  best.  We  can  wait  for  our  career. 
.  "We  must  wait  indeed,  Emanuel;  and  per 
haps  a  long  time.  You  must  have  thought  nn 
a  wild,  romantic  fool.  I  am  sorry  now,  for  '. 
see  that  you  are  right." 

"  Then  I  have  convinced  you  ?"  I  asked,  joy 
ously,  proud  of  my  pitiful  and  jealous  prudence 
as  if  it  were  any  thing  but  faint-heartedness 
suspicion,  and  folly. 

"You  have  convinced  me,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
sad  voice.  "Let  us  not  speak  of  it  now  any 
more,  Emanuel ;  at  least  for  to-night.  I  wil 
sing  you  something." 

She  sat  down  to  her  piano  and  sang,  and  I 
listened  until  the  dusk  deepened  into  night. 
We  parted  with  affection ;  but  there  was  a 
sadness  in  her  manner  which  I  might  have 
thought  ominous.  As  I  stood  a  moment  be- 
low her  window  I  heard  her  still  faintly  sing- 
ing, and  knew  that  she  was  not  sitting  but 
moving  through  the  room.  I  walked  slowly 
away,  often  looking  back;  suddenly  I  heard 
her  window  raised,  and,  turning  round,  I  could 
see,  in  the  deep  purple  of  a  late  summer  night, 
the  outline  of  her  head  and  neck  dark  against 
the  sky.  I  thought  jshe  beckoned  to  me,  and  I 
hurried  back. 

"  Only  to  say  good-by,"  she  said  in  a  whis- 
per; and  she  seemed  strangely  fluttered  and 
excited.  "I  only  wanted  to  say  good-by  once 
more,  dearest;  just  good-by." 

As  she  leaned  from  the  window  a  rose  she 
was  wearing  in  her  breast  fell  at  my  feet.  I 
took  it  up  and  put  it  to  my  lips.  Some  com- 
ing footsteps  were  heard,  and  she  whispered  in 
a  very  faint,  very  sad  tone  the  word  "Ade." 
Then  she  quickly  closed  the  window  and  drew 
the  curtain,  and  I  could  see  her  no  more. 

Her  voice  lingered  in  my  ears  as  I  went  slow- 
ly home,  and  was  in  my  dreams  all  night.  I 
longed  for  the  next  night,  that  I  might  listen 
to  it  again. 

So  the  next  day  dragged  heavily  through, 
and  I  was  impatient  of  i^;,  of  myself,  of  every 
thing,  feverishly  anxious  to  meet  her  again; 
haunted  fretfully  by  a  fear  that  I  had  made 
myself  look  mean  in  her  eyes  ;  by  a  doubt 
whether,  after  all,  my  wisdom  had  not  been 
folly ;  by  a  vague  foreboding  of  disunion  be- 
tween us.  I  made  many  mistakes  and  blun- 
ders that  day ;  and  Mr.  Bollington  more  than 
once  put  up  his  double  eye-glass  and  looked  at 
me  with  cold  significant  scrutiny. 

At  last  the  hour  came  for  leaving  the  office. 
I  was  at  the  door,  rejoiced  to  be  free  in  the 
evening  sunlight,  when  a  small  boy,  whom  I 
knew  well,  came  up  and  handed  me  a  letter. 
The  urchin  was  the  youngest  son  of  the  poor 
watch-maker  who  had  the  shop  over  which 
Christina  lived,  and  he  was  often  bribed  with 
buns,  apples,  and  half-pence  to  act  as  letter- 
earner  between  us.  So  I  knew  at  once  what 
he  came  for,  and  I  snatched  at  his  letter. 


"Oh,  but  stop,"  said  the  young  varlet;  "is 
the  office  closed  for  the  day?" 

"Yes,  Tom;  what  of  that?" 

"And  you  are  home  for  the  day?" 

"  Yes,  yes.  Why  do  you  ask  questions,  you 
little  imp  ?" 

"Because  she  told  me  I  wasn't  to  give  it  to 
you  until  you  were  coming  away.  I've  had  it 
in  my  pocket  ever  so  long. " 

So  he  gave  me  the  letter,  and  darted  down 
the  street,  alternately  whooping  and  whistling. 

I  opened  it,  and  read : 

"Mr  WELL -BELOVED,  Farewell!  I  have 
thought  and  thought,  and  I  see  we  must  not 
marry  yet.  Oh,  forgive  me,  Emanuel,  and  be 
not  so  very  sorry  or  lonely.  I  think  we  must 
not  meet  for  a  long  time.  I  am  gone  away, 
and  you  must  not  think  of  following  me  or 
seeking  me ;  for  the  Heaven  has  told  me  that 
now  I  could  only  be  an  encumbrance  to  you, 
and  that  if  we  were  married  now,  you  would 
be  sorry  one  day.  I  go  away  that  I  may  some 
time  be  able  to  help  you.  If  ever  I  can,  then 
we  shall  meet  again,  for  I  will  find  you  and 
come  to  you.  If  not,  then  far  better  we  meet 
no  more.  Either  way  it  will  be  better,  and 
you  will  thank  me  some  time,  and  say  Chris- 
tina had  right.  I  love  you  still ;  all  the  same 
as  ever.  Still  love  me :  farewell,  and  think  of 
me  often,  as  I  shall  never,  never  forget  you. 
"CHRISTINA." 

This  was  all.  The  letter  was  written  in  the 
quaint  half- German  character  and  the  con- 
strained foreign  style  which  I  knew  so  well. 
'.  turned  down  a  dark  lane  out  of  the  sunny 
street ;  the  ground  seemed  to  heave  under  my 
eet,  and  black  spots  danced  before  my  eyes  in 
he  sunlight.  I  was  not  far  from  the  sea — my 
>ld,  old  confidant ;  and  I  hurried  to  it  as  if  my 
ost  love  were  to  be  found  by  its  margin.  Stag- 
gering, slipping,  with  dazed  eyes  and  choking 
hroat  and  bursting  heart,  I  reached  the  strand, 
ind  flung  myself  down,  and  read  the  letter  again 
ind  again  and  again.  And  then  I  laid  my  head 
pon  the  ring  of  a  rusty  anchor,  and  I  broke  into 
i  boyish  passion  and  tempest  of  tears.  She  had 
made  her  choice — and  left  me !  Of  the  beau- 
iful  happy  life  that  had  grown  up  around  us, 
nd  that  seemed  destined  to  live  with  our  lives, 
here  was  nothing  left  me  but  my  memory,  my 
rief,  my  agony — a  few  letters,  and  the  flower 
hat  last  night  had  fallen  from  her  breast. 

From  that  time  I  never  saw  her  face  for  ten 
ong  years. 

Did  I  make  any  effort  to  recover  her  ?     Did 

not  ?  All  I  could  learn  at  her  lodgings  was 
imply  that  she  had  gone  by  the  London  coach, 
nd  that  she  had  said  she  was  going  to  her  broth- 
r's.  I  hurried  up  to  London  by  the  very  next 
oach — with  what  result  I  need  hardly  say.  Ut- 
erly  a  stranger  in  the  metropolis,  my  search 
lere  was  quite  thrown  away.  I  could  only 
earn  at  the  coach-office  that  such  a  girl  had 
ctually  traveled  to  town  the  day  before,  and 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


31 


that  was  all  any  body  knew  of  her.  I  wasted 
days  in  hunting  about  the  docks  for  Dantzic 
or  Konigsberg  ships  or  steamers.  I  found  no- 
thing of  her.  Then  I  bethought  me  that  she 
might  have  gone  to  Hull,  and  I  too  went  to 
Hull ;  of  course  utterly  too  late  to  have  stopped 
her  even  had  she  gone  there.  I  had  made  up 
my  mind  to  follow  her,  when  it  occurred  to  me 
that  perhaps,  after  all,  she  had  relented  and 
written  to  me  some  word  of  comfort  and  guid- 
ance, and  I  hurried  back  to  my  native  town. 
No  letter  awaited  me,  and  I  resolved  at  least 
to  try  the  last  chance  and  follow  her  to  her 
brother's.  I  remembered  the  name  of  the 
street  in  which  her  brother  lived,  and  it  could 
not  be  difficult  to  find  the  house.  Besides,  I 
was  now  seized  with  a  detestation  of  our  town 
and  all  that  belonged  to  it ;  and  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  must  leave  it  or  go  mad.  The 
thought  of  living  there  without  her,  of  toil- 
ing there  uncheered  and  unloved,  of  spend- 
ing drear  evenings  alone  where  I  had  been  so 
happy,  of  looking  up  at  the  window  where  she 
could  no  longer  be  seen;  all  this  was  simply 
intolerable  to  me.  I  had  never  entered  my 
old  employer's  door  from  the  evening  when  I 
received  Christina's  letter.  What  Mr.  Bol- 
lington  thought  of  me,  or  whether  he  thought 
about  me  at  all,  I  cared  nothing.  I  sent  no 
explanation  or  word  of  any  kind.  I  had  some 
little  money  saved ;  I  sold  some  few  poor  things, 
and  got  a  little  more  money ;  and  I  took  a  pas- 
sage in  a  Baltic  vessel  which  was  to  put  in  at 
Dantzic.  One  fair  sweet  autumn  evening  I 
looked  back  on  the  strand  where  I  had  read 
Christina's  letter,  and  watched  the  white  houses 
of  the  old  town  of  my  childhood,  and  the  hill 
whereon  was  my  mother's  grave,  until  all  sank 
out  of  sight,  and  with  them  closed  the  first 
bright  chapter  of  my  life. 

The  weather  changed,  and  we  had  a  rough, 
slow,  miserable  passage.  Our  wretched  heavy 
old  tub  was  beaten  about  the  North  Sea  and 
the  Baltic  so  long  that  it  seemed  to  me  as  if 
life  had  been  actually  changed  into  a  perpetua 
tossing  on  broken  wintry  waters.  At  last  we 
reached  Dantzic,  and  I  made  my  way  to  Chris- 
tina's native  town — a  town  of  canals  and  islands 
and  numberless  bridges,  and  steep,  narrow,  dark 
ling  streets,  with  whole  populations  living  in  each 
house. 

I  found  Christina's  people  at  last.  They  re 
ceived  me  at  first  coldly,  and  even  harshly,  re 
garding  me  as  her  evil  genius ;  but  having  a 
length  come  to  understand  that  she  had  re 
nounced  me,  they  lapsed  into  pity  and  were 
kind.  But  they  knew  nothing  about  her — ab 
solutely  nothing.  She  had  not  come  there- 
she  had  not  written  any  reply  to  their  last  let 
ter.  My  coming  first  told  them  that  she  ha< 
'left  her  old  home.  My  journey  had  been  utter 
ly  fruitless  and  futile. 

I  took  a  passage  again  for  England.  Sick  a 
heart,  and  weak  in  frame,  with  only  two  or  thre 
sovereigns  left,  I  landed  one  wet,  foggy  evenm 
near  the  Tower  of  London.  As  I  stepped  ashor 


said  to  myself,  "  Here,  then,  in  London  will  I 
tay.  I  accept  battle  here.  I  will  succeed  here 
r  fail.  I  will  live  here,  if  I  can  ;  if  not,  I  do 
ot  much  care  how  or  how  soon  I  am  to  die 
ere.  Here  I  shall  meet  Christina  again,  or 
owhere." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

FROM   ARCADIA  TO   BOHEMIA. 

So  I  kept  my  word,  and  drudged  for  years  in 
he  solitude  and  darkness  of  London  poverty 
nd  struggle.  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  teaching 
f  music  and  to  concert-singing,  when  I  could 
;et  a  decent  engagement,  or  indeed  any  en- 
gagement at  all.  Understand  that  mine  was 
or  a  long  time  a  hard  struggle.  I  lived  in  a 
garret — I  was  familiar  with  hunger.  The  de- 
ails  of  the  first  few  years  may  be  spared.  Sto- 
ies  of  struggles  in  London  by  rising  young  men 
lave  all  a  sort  of  family  resemblance ;  indeed, 
hey  are  as  much  alike  as  Lely's  court  beauties ; 
and  if  they  sometimes  differ  in  catastrophe — 
ne  adventurous  career  ending  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  and  another  in  the  Lambeth  Work- 
)OUse — go  one  court  beauty  may  have  died  in 
,he  purple,  and  another  in  the  lazar-house.  I 
do  not  care  to  weary  the  reader  with  a  minute 
account  of  my  struggles  for  a  living ;  I  only  ask 
him  to  understand  that  they  were  real  and  hard ; 
hat  for  a  time  they  regularly  included  actual 
want ;  that  they  often  meant  destitution ;  that 
lunger  was  a  common  condition ;  that  once  or 
twice  I  thought  it  likely  enough  my  fate  must 
be  to  die  of  starvation.  Let  us  pass  over  all 
this,  and  come  to  a  time  when  I  began  to  have 
a  certain  income,  however  small ;  when  I  had 
a  few  substantial  engagements  as  a  teacher  of 
singing  and  music  ;  and  was  beginning  to  think 
of  struggling  my  way  to  Italy  in  the  hope  of  re- 
turning thence  a  qualified  candidate  for  a  place 
on  the  lyric  stage.  For  on  this  I  had  set  my 
heart.  Pride,  disappointment,  baffled  love,  all 
conspired  to  make  this  seem  the  necessary  task 
of  my  life.  To  prove  myself— even  were  it  only 
to  myself— not  a  failure,  not  a  coward,  was  a 
resolution  within  me  strong  and  tenacious  as 
revenge.  It  was,  indeed,  my  revenge. 

I  will  not  say  that  the  memory  of  Christina  had 
not  somewhat  softened,  faded  into  a  gentler  rec- 
ollection, during  all  this  time.  But  its  impres- 
sion was  always  with  me,  giving  sadness  or  cour- 
age, hope  or  despondency,  as  my  chances  and 
my  mood  would  have  it ;  always,  most  certain- 
ly, exalting  and  purifying  the  mournful  monot- 
ony of  my  drudging  life  by  the  memory  of  some- 
thing beautiful,  tender,  and  distant.  For  years 
of  my  life  I  was  in  the  habit  daily  of  going  up 
and  down  the  river  in  the  boats,  and  I  became 
an  intense  admirer  of  St.  Paul's.  I  admire  that 
building— forgive  me  if  the  confession  show  stu- 
pidity and  want  of  taste — more  than  Pantheon 
or  Colosseum,  than  Westminster  Abbey  or  Notre 
Dame,  or  Cologne  or  Antwerp  Cathedral,  or  St. 
Peter's  or  St.  Sophia's.  To  look  up  at  it  from 


32 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


Blackfriar's  Bridge  on  a  winter  evening,  when 
a  cold  heaven  and  a  few  whitening  clouds  are 
behind,  and  the  dome  seems  a  mere  flat  shape 
against  the  sky,  a  mere  form  and  outline,  de- 
lighted me.  To  see  it  sparkling  in  the  rosy  col- 
or of  a  summer  morning,  with  light  and  shade 
succeeding  each  other  on  its  spires  and  its  round- 
ed sides,  or  rising  out  of  the  masses  of  sunset 
cloud -heaps  like  a  glimpse  of  some  glorious 
heaven-city,  was  a  sight  still  more  exquisite. 
Even  when  the  November  fog  is  around  it,  and 
its  outlines  can  only  be  seen  at  broken  and  vague 
intervals,  it  is  a  delight  to  think  that  behind  that 
curtain  of  vapor  lie  rich  spires  and  domes  which 
one  breath  of  wind  might  reveal  in  all  their 
beauty.  In  whatever  season  or  hour,  it  seems 
to  me  to  romanticize  and  to  sanctify  the  hideous 
commonplace  stretch  of  roofs  and  chimneys, 
and  wharves  and  the  leaden  Lethean  river,  on 
which  it  looks.  So  was  the  memory  of  Chris- 
tina, and  the  presence  of  my  love  and  even  of 
my  disappointment,  in  my  hard  and  common- 
place life. 

Sometimes  I  have  deliberately  come  to  one 
of  the  bridges  in  the  early  morning,  and  stood 
in  one  of  the  recesses  and  watched  the  different 
phases  of  beauty  the  glorious  dome  would  assume 
in  the  glowing  light  and  the  changing  clouds,  un- 
til perhaps  at  last  the  whole  air  filled  with  bright- 
ness, and  every  cloud  vanished,  and  the  dome 
and  cross  were  alone  in  the  blue  heaven.  But 
these  were  rare  enjoyments.  Generally  I  caught 
glimpses  of  my  favorite  building  as  I  made  my 
way  among  the  bustling  crowds  on  the  bridges 
or  on  Ludgate  Hill,  or  as  I  passed  beneath  in 
one  of  the  penny  steamers.  So,  too,  of  my 
memory  of  Christina.  Sometimes  I  had  an 
hour  or  a  whole  evening  to  give  to  my  boyish 
love,  and  I  brought  her  back  before  my  mind 
and  my  eyes  until  she  stood  as  clear  and  as  life- 
like before  me  as  when  we  lived  in  Arcadia  to- 
gether. But  these,  too,  were  rare  delights.  In 
ordinary  life  I  only  caught  mental  glimpses  of 
her  as  I  fought  my  way  through  vulgar  diffi- 
culties, and  obtained  some  mean  and  common- 
place advantages.  But  the  influence  was  there 
always.  I  am  a  believer  in  beauty  and  nature 
and  love,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  With  a  mem- 
ory like  mine,  a  faint  hope,  a  strong  purpose 
like  mine,  life  could  never  become  wholly  vul- 
gar or  contemptible.  "  So  long, "  says  the  great 
prose-poet  whom  Christina's  father  used  to  read 
to  us  in  the  old  nights,  "as  the  sun  keeps  but 
the  slenderest  rim  of  its  disk  uneclipsed  the 
world  is  not  given  up  to  darkness." 

All  this  time,  be  it  understood,  my  ordinary 
way  of  life  was  very  prosaic,  poor,  and  mean. 
I  was  now — say  seven  years  or  so  after  my 
coming  to  London— only  just  lifting  my  head 
above  mere  poverty.  I  was  utterly  obscure.  I 
was  living  in  a  low  and  swampy  district  on  the 
Surrey  bank  of  the  Thames,  in  the  Putney  di- 
rection. I  lodged  there  with  a  poor,  respecta- 
ble, and  lady-like  old  person,  whose  appearance 
attracted  me  when  I  happened  to  come  that 
way  hunting 'for  cheap  and  airy  apartments. 


The  neighboring  population  consisted  chiefly 
of  brickmakers  and  market-gardeners.  A  park 
having  been  promised,  a  few  rows  of  cheap  stuc- 
coed houses  were  built,  and  christened  Albert 
terraces,  Garibaldi  villas,  Alma  places,  and  such 
other  appropriate  and  attractive  names  as  the 
whirligig  of  time  chanced  to  bring  within  the 
easy  intellectual  range  of  speculating  builders. 
The  roads  were  damp  and  undrained,  and  the 
whole  place  looked  specially  cheerless.  TBe 
inhabitants  of  the  terraces,  villas,  and  places  in 
no  case  belonged  to  the  indigenous  population, 
but  were  of  a  half-genteel,  half-pauper,  and 
wholly  nomad  class,  like  ourselves.  Many  peo- 
ple tried  letting  lodgings  or  opening  schools 
there,  and  failed.  One  or  twO  persons  having 
privately  the  care  of  insane  patients,  and  prob- 
ably rather  anxious  to  keep  them  insane,  brought 
them  to  bide  in  this  dismal  swamp.  A  few  gov- 
ernment civil  officers — Customs,  Inland  Rev- 
enue, etc. — who  had  not  risen  in  their  depart- 
ments, came  and  settled  there.  A  forlorn 
water-color  painter,  a  hopeless  photographer, 
were  among  our  neighbors ;  in  fact,  any  kind 
of  people  who,  dreadfully  poor,  yet  would  not 
wholly  abandon  the  appearance  of  gentility, 
drifted  thither  naturally.  So  long  as  the  villas 
and  cottages  were  kept  in  decent  repair  they 
looked  pleasant  enough,  and  indeed  rather  fine 
and  imposing.  A  semi-detached  villa,  with  a 
vast  row  of  steps  and  urns  at  either  side,  some- 
what awed  the  visitor  at  first;  but  the  urns 
were  full  of  dry  mud  and  dead  leaves  and 
spiders ;  the  drawing-room  was  uncarpeted  and 
hardly  furnished  ;  a  dirty  slatternly  servant,  or 
a  little  girl  with  a  torn  frock  and  curl-papers, 
opened  the  door;  grass  and  v/eeds  grew  upon 
the  sides  of  the  parapets  ;  the  only  traffic  con- 
sisted of  great  coal-wagons  going  to  and  from 
the  neighboring  railway-stations.  The  lanes 
were  blocked  up  with  perpetual  mud ;  the  frog 
looked  in  at  the  kitchen-window;  the  maggot 
and  the  worm  made  themselves  free  of  the  back- 
parlor.  Here  and  there  small  rows  of  shops 
had  been  begun  and  suddenly  stopped,  and  no 
one  ever  seemed  to  have  any  idea  of  complet- 
ing them.  My  landlady's  daughter  called  the 
whole  settlement  "a  refuge  for  the  destitute." 
It  was  decaying,  but  not  venerable ;  it  was  new, 
but  not  fresh ;  it  had  all  the  disadvantages  of 
newness,  and  all  the  defects  of  age.  I  heard  a 
lady  near  whom  I  happened  to  sit  one  evening 
in  a  river  steamer  describe  it  to  a  companion, 
when  its  swampy  flats  came  in  sight,  as  "a 
deathy  place."  The  phrase  was  picturesque, 
effective,  and  very  appropriate.  It  did  look  a  • 
deathy  place ;  but  it  had  the  advantages— to  me 
supreme — of  being  very  cheap,  and  of  having 
easy  access  to  the  river,  and  therefore  to  town. 
In  this  refuge  for  the  destitute,  then,  began  my 
march  to  wealth ;  in  this  deathy  place  opened 
my  struggle  for  life. 

My  landlady  and  her  daughter  were  poor — 
dreadfully  poor.  I  had  seen  enough  of  poverty 
n  my  own  town,  and  indeed  in  my  own  sur- 
roundings, but  somehow  it  was  not  poverty  like 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


33 


that  of  Mrs.  Lyndon  and  her  daughter  Lilla. 
Provincial  poverty  is  hardly  ever  indeed  quite 
the  same  as  London  poverty — there  is  all  the 
difference  that  exists  between  a  thatched  hovel 
and  a  Drury  Lane  garret.  But  that  was  not 
the  difference  here ;  Mrs.  Lyndon  was  always 
clean,  neat,  and  well  dressed ;  and  she  always 
seemed  to  be  able  to  get  mutton-chops  for  her 
daughter's  dinner.  The  daughter  always  dressed 
like  a  girl  accustomed  to  wear  good  clothes,  and 
therefore  not  afraid  to  be  occasionally  shabby. 
She  never  looked  worse  than  like  a  lady  in 
dishabille.  There  was  none  of  the  artful  neat- 
ness, the  mournful  nervous  precision,  of  con- 
scious poverty  about  her.  What  on  earth  did 
they  live  on,  that  mother  and  daughter  ?  I  had 
been  with  them  now  for  a  long  time ;  I  was  con- 
stantly being  consulted  by  mother  and  daugh- 
ter about  their  pecuniary  affairs.  I  sometimes 
counted  over  the  amount  which  I  knew  the 
lodgers  to  pay,  and  it  still  left  a  pound  or  two 
of  the  house-rent  unaccounted  for,  and  the  rates 
and  taxes  altogether  unapproached.  Every 
other  day  some  tax-collector  called  and  left  a 
paper.  These  documents  used  to  lie  in  little 
dusty,  sooty  piles  on  the  chimney-piece ;  I  do 
not  know  that  Mrs.  Lyndon  ever  thought  about 
attempting  to  pay  off  any  of  them.  I  scarcely 
ever  came  in  at  the  door  without  seeing  some 
collector  arguing  and  threatening  in  vain.  I 
think  the  dwellers  in  these  neighborhoods  used 
to  allow  debts  of  this  and  other  kinds  to  run  up 
until  they  reached  an  insurmountable  pile,  and 
then  they  removed  at  night  to  another  locality. 
They  were  up  to  all  manner  of  dodges.  Some- 
times the  house  was  taken  in  the  daughter's 
name ;  and  this  fact  enabled  the  mother,  who 
was  always  at  home,  to  waive  the  responsibility 
away  from  herself  and  stave  off  the  collectors  a 
little  longer.  They  seemed  ashamed  of  nothing. 
Lilla  would  entertain  me  sometimes  through  a 
whole  afternoon's  walk  with  narratives  of  the 
straits  to  which  they  had  been  driven,  and  the 
success  with  which  they  had  come  through 
them.  You  could  not  contemplate  poverty  of 
this  sort  without  an  impression  that  in  its  mean- 
ness and  its  cynicism  it  bordered  on  vice  j  and 
yet  its  endurance,  its  frankness,  its  cheerful  de- 
termination were  dashed  with  the  flavor  of  a 
kind  of  virtue.  You  must  pity  people  so  hard 
up,  and  you  must  also  feel  a  certain  contempt 
for  them  ;  and  yet  in  my  case  I  could  not  help 
liking  them,  trusting  in  them,  and  feeling  some- 
thing resembling  affection  for  them.  They  were 
in  every  sense  so  kind-hearted,  in  one  sense  at 
least  so  true  ;  and  then  we  were  all  so  hard  up 
together,  that  mere  necessity  and  propinquity 
made  us  companionable,  as  people  may  be  who 
are  forced  to  pass  the  night  beneath  the  same 
tree  in  Hyde  Park,  or  under  the  same  dry  arch 
of  the  Adelphi. 

A  girl  like  Lilla  Lyndon  was,  to  my  provin- 
cial mind,  a  perfectly  wonderful  phenomenon. 
She  was  extremely  pretty,  with  dark  skin  and 
crisp,  wavy,  dark  hair,  and  bright,  laughing, 
twinkling  eyes,  and  a  smile  the  most  confident, 
r. 


sweet,  and  winning  one  could  well  be  gladdened 
by.  She  had  plenty  of  talk,  and  she  talked  in 
a  voice  just  a  little  sharp,  but  with  a  charming 
accent  ;  and,  in  whatever  poverty  and  privation, 
she  had  something  like  the  manners  of  a  lady. 
But  these  were  not  the  peculiarities  which  most 
struck  me.  I  was  principally  surprised  by  her 
inexhaustible  knowledge  of  practical  life.  How 
old  was  she  ?  Hardly  twenty,  I  should  think, 
at  the  time  I  am  now  telling  of,  and  yet  she 
seemed  to  know  London,  its  ways,  its  people, 
its  life,  its  tricks  and  dodges,  high  and  low,  to 
the  very  heart.  No  royal  road  was  that  which 
had  led  to  such  learning  !  Many  a  hard  strug- 
gle must  have  been  battled  through  before  such 
sad  practical  experience  of  the  world's  war- 
fare could  be  got  into  that  pretty  little  curly 


Lilla  always  dressed  with  an  appearance  of 
fashion.  If  a  new  style  of  bonnet  came  in,  I 
sometimes  found  her  at  night  working  away  at 
her  own  old  bonnet,  and  next  day  it  was  con- 
verted into  a  very  deceptive  imitation  of  the 
reigning  mode.  She  reconstructed  her  dresses 
as  often  as  the  British  Board  of  Admiralty  re- 
construct their  war-ships.  When  crinoline  came 
in  she  was  in  the  front  of  the  fashion,  with  pet- 
ticoats wide  enough  for  a  duchess.  She  was 
always  doing  some  mending  work  to  stockings 
and  slippers.  She  was  absolutely  without  hy- 
pocrisy or  deceit  of  any  kind  ;  even  the  pardon- 
able feminine  deception  which  keeps  ready  to 
hand  a  piece  of  crochet-work  or  bead-orna- 
mentation to  be  produced  the  moment  a  tap  at 
the  door  announces  a  visitor,  while  the  real 
piece  of  work,  the  pair  of  stays  or  flannel  petti- 
coat in  process  of  repair,  is  hastily  thrust  under 
the  sofa-cushion.  Whatever  Lilla  Lyndon  was 
doing  when  you  came  in,  that  she  kept  on  doing 
as  unconcernedly  as  before.  You  found  her 
darning  a  stocking,  perhaps,  and  she  continued 
the  work  —  sometimes,  it  may  be,  calling  your 
special  attention  to  the  frayed  and  tattered 
condition  of  the  article.  You  found  her  in  curl- 
papers, and  she  volunteered  the  admission  that 
she  was  too  lazy  to  take  them  out  when  getting 
up  that  morning,  or  that  she  wanted  her  hair  to 
be  in  particularly  good  curl  that  evening  —  per- 
haps because  her  uncle  was  going  to  take  her 
somewhere.  She  was  ashamed  of  nothing  that 
she  did.  Let  me  do  prompt  justice  to  a  clever 
and  pretty  girl,  and  say,  to  prevent  my  readers 
from  misjudging  her,  that  she  never  did  any 
thing  to  be  ashamed  of,  except  talk  over  cred- 
itors, and  go  in  debt  when  she  had  no  prospect 
of  paying.  She  was  honest  in  every  way  ex- 
cept as  regarded  creditors;  and  you  could  as 
easily  have  convinced  a  cat  that  it  is  dishonor- 
able to  steal  cream  as  induced  Lilla,  Lyndon  at 
this  period  of  her  life  to  believe  that  the  laws  of 
morality  have  any  thing  to  do  with  the  relations 
between  debtor  and  creditor. 

Lilla's  uncle  was  for  some  time  a  mysterious 
and  mythical  personage  to  me.  The  very  first 
day  I  became  acquainted  with  mother  and 
daughter  I  heard  of  the  uncle,  who  was  a  mem* 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


her  of  Parliament,  and  had  an  estate  in  Leices- 
tershire, and  who  would  not  do  much  for  them 
now,  but  they  hoped  would  do  something  some 
day  for  Lilla.  They  did  not  boast  of  him  by 
any  means  in  the  manner  of  ordinary  poor  peo- 
ple dragging  in  a  story  of  a  rich  relation,  but 
simply  referred  to  him  as  their  one  sole  possi- 
ble resource  and  holdfast  in  utter  emergencies. 
Gradually  I  came  to  hear  of  the  various  arts  and 
expedients  by  which  Lilla  contrived  from  time 
to  time  to  coax  or  wring  a  few  pounds  out  of 
him.  Mrs.  Lyndon  never  ventured  to  go  near 
him.  There  was  a  sort  of  treaty,  I  fancy,  that 
she  was  never  to  intrude  on  him.  I  could  gath- 
er from  them  that  he  could  never  forgive  her  for 
having  been  virtuous,  and  having  thus  rendered 
it  necessary  for  his  brother,  when  he  fell  in  love 
with  her,  a  poor  girl,  to  marry  her.  He  was 
now  more  angry  with  her  than  ever  because  she 
was  poor  and  lonely,  old  and  shabby.  No  doubt 
many  of  her  shifts  and  schemes  and  pressing 
appeals  for  money  often  made  the  relationship 
seem  a  very  discreditable  thing.  The  mother 
and  daughter  had  not  known  him  very  long. 
Lilla's  childhood  had  been  passed  in  Heaven 
knows  what  poverty  and  meanness,  her  mother 
never  daring  to  apply  to  the  wealthy  and  offend- 
ed relative.  Lilla  herself  told  me,  with  some 
pride  and  much  laughter,  how  she,  being  driven 
to  utter  desperation  one  day,  determined  upon 
hunting  down  her  uncle,  and  how  she  found 
him  out  in  his  great  house  in  Mayfair,  and  faced 
the  powdered  servants,  and  insisted  upon  seeing 
him  ;  how  she  waited  outside  the  hall-door  for 
two  mortal  hours,  very  cold,  very  hungry,  but 
resolute,  and  prepared  for  the  encounter  by 
being  dressed  in  whatever  finery  she  had  got ; 
how  at  last  she  saw  him,  and  was  rather  gruffly 
received ;  how  she  began  to  cry,  thinking  that 
the  proper  way  to  soften  a  cruel  uncle,  but  was 
soon  undeceived  by  the  cruel  uncle  telling  her 
sternly  that  he  hated  crying  women,  whereupon 
she  desisted  from  weeping,  the  more  readily  be- 
cause she  had  not  the  least  inclination  to  cry ; 
and  how  at  last  she  compelled  him  to  admit  the 
relationship,  and  came  away  with  a  permission 
to  call  again  and  a  ten-pound  note.  This  pres- 
ent she  changed  at  the  nearest  shop,  and  treat- 
ed herself  forthwith  to  a  pair  of  gloves,  a  new 
bonnet,  a  fowl  to  be  brought  home  for  dinner, 
and  a  hansom  cab  to  her  own  door. 

Since  then  she  had  never  lost  sight  of  him. 
He  must  either  have  begun  to  accept  her  exist- 
ence and  her  visits  as  a  kind  of  dispensation  not 
to  be  any  longer  resisted,  or  she  must  have 
really  succeeded,  with  her  pretty  face,  genteel 
figure,  and  coaxing  ways,  in  making  him  fond 
of  her.  He  was  a  widower,  and  had  daughters 
of  his  own ;  but  they  would  never  see  Lilla, 
who,  for  her  own  part,  was  only  too  happy  to 
escape  seeing  them ;  and  all  her  visits,  there- 
fore, were  paid  in  the  absence  of  these  inflexible 
ladies.  Mr.  Lyndon  seemed  to  me,  by  Lilla's 
own  admission,  to  have  done  a  good  deal  for 
her.  He  had  obtained  for  her  situations  as 
governess  in  various  families  in  London,  in 


Cheltenham,  in  Edinburgh,  in  Bath,  in  Scar- 
borough ;  but  she  always  quitted  her  place 
somewhat  abruptly,  and  came  back  to  her  mo- 
ther reveling  and  rejoicing  in  her  freedom, 
which  she  celebrated  by  laying  out  part  of  the 
balance  of  her  salary  in  a  fowl,  or  oysters,  or  a 
lobster,  or  something  nice  for  supper.  Terrible 
trouble  had  she  each  time  to  make  her  explana- 
tions and  excuses  to  her  uncle,  and  cozen  him 
into  forgiving  her.  From  various  hints  and 
stray  words,  I  conjectured  that  she  did  not  get 
on  well  with  the  ladies  of  any  family ;  and  I 
fancy  she  had  the  evil  fate,  either  by  intention 
or  innocent  inadvertence,  to  attract  a  good  deal 
too  much  of  the  notice  of  the  husbands,  broth- 
ers, sons,  friends,  and  male  visitors  generally, 
of  the  houses  into  which  she  was  successively 
introduced. 

I  often  marveled  that,  in  a  place  like  London, 
so  quick  and  clever  a  girl  as  Lilla  could  find  no 
way  of  converting  her  energy  and  ingenuity  into 
money.  But  practical  capacity  of  this  kind  she 
seemed  not  to  have,  or  not  to  care  about  exert- 
ing. I  began  to  find,  too,  that  the  counsels  of 
her  mother  did  not  much  tend  to  make  her  in- 
dustrious to  any  purpose. 

"  My  Lilly  is  a  good  girl,"  poor  Mrs.  Lyndon 
would  say  to  me  ;  "  a  good  girl,  Mr.  Banks,  al- 
though I  say  it.  She  ought  to  be  a  lady ;  arid 
perhaps  she  will  be  one  day.  If  I  were  dead 
and  out  of  the  way,  I  think,  perhaps,  they  would 
make  her  a  lady.  She  isn't  fit  to  lead  this  kind 
of  life  ;  she's  too  delicate  and  too  refined ;  any 
body  can  see  that.  She  can't  eat  the  kind  of 
dinners  I  have  to  set  before  her  sometimes,  poor 
child." 

Lilla  was  immensely  fond  of  the  pastry-cook's 
shop,  and  had  a  taste  for  lobster-salad  as  finely 
developed  as  ever  I  saw.  There  was  something 
unspeakably  touching  in  the  manner  and  tone 
of  the  old  woman  when  she  spoke  of  this  boun- 
cing London  lass,  and  the  sincerity  with  which 
she  evidently  regarded  her  as  too  delicate  and 
fragile  for  the  coarse  world  around. 

"She  isn't  strong  like  me,"  the  emaciated 
old  creature  would  say,  the  tears  blinking  in 
her  sad  and  faded  eyes.  "I  was  a  farmer's 
daughter,  Mr.  Banks,  passing  half  my  days  in 
the  fields  and  the  open  air,  not  like  a  poor, 
peaky  Londoner.  I  was  a  fine,  stout,  rosy  girl 
at  Lilly's  age;  and  long  before  that  I  could 
cook  and  bake  and  brew,  and  put  my  hand  to 
every  thing  about  the  farm.  Once  we  had  a 
great  harvest-home  dinner,  and  I  cooked  a 
beautiful  fawn  for  the  day ;  and  oh,  bless  you, 
the  praise  I  got  for  it!  My  father  called  me 
up  to  the  table,  and  the  farmers  all  drank  my 
health,  and  told  me  I'd  make  such  a  splendid 
farmer's  wife.  I  was  that  proud,  I  can  tell  you ; 
and  I  didn't  expect  then  to  be  living  in  London 
a  poor  old  woman.  But  my  poor  Lilly  was 
brought  up  in  town,  and  I  never  had  much  to 
give  her,  dear  child  ;  and  she  can't  be  expected 
to  look  strong  and  well  as  country  girls  do." 

Mrs.  Lyndon  was  not  a  widow.  That  piece 
of  information  had  been  volunteered  to  me  bv 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


35 


Lilla.  Lilla  told  me  her  father  had  deserted 
them,  and  gone  abroad  somewhere,  and  had 
not  since  been  heard  of. 

Sometimes  when  I  came  home  late  at  night 
I  used  to  find  my  way  down  to  the  kitchen, 
where  the  embers  of  the  fire  were  generally 
burning,  and  where  I  could  smoke  a  pipe  with 
a  clear  conscience,  having  no  curtains  to  fumi- 
gate and  no  one  to  render  uncomfortable.  One 
night,  as  I  was  going  down,  I  was  surprised  to 
see  a  light  below.  Thinking  the  gas  had  been 
left  burning  by  mistake,  I  went  down;  and 
when  just  on  the  last  stair  I  saw  that  Mrs.  Lyn- 
don was  still  up.  She  was  seated  with  her  back 
to  me,  and  leaned  over  the  table.  Was  she 
asleep  ?  I  stooped  forward  to  see.  No ;  she 
was  awake,  and  bent  over  something  which  she 
was  moving  between  her  hands.  Old  stories 
of  misers  in  the  depth  of  lonely  night  counting 
their  secret  stores  of  gold  came  whimsically 
enough  to  my  mind.  She  had  no  gold,  how- 
ever ;  only  a  decayed  old  pack  of  blackened 
cards  spread  before  her.  I  softly  withdrew ;  I 
had  seen  enough ;  I  had  fathomed  all  the  poor, 
sad  little  mystery  with  one  involuntary  glance. 
I  too  was  of  Arcadia ;  I  too  had  come  up  from 
the  country,  where  superstitions  are  still  a  faith, 
and  omens  and  divinations  defy  Hamlet's  phi- 
losophy. I  knew  at  once  that  Mrs.  Lyndon  was 
trying  some  feeble,  sad,  sibylline  work.  Poor 
old  creature,  with  her  early  and  childish  coun- 
try superstitions  still  clinging  round  her,  she 
was  sorting  the  cards  to  discover  in  them  some 
tidings  of  the  husband  who  had  deserted  her — 
some  hint  as  to  the  fortunes  of  the  daughter 
whom  she  was  breaking  her  heart  to  bring  up 
as  a  lady. 

Late  that  night  I  heard  a  hansom  cab  drive 
up  to  the  door.  I  was  reading  something  in 
my  own  room,  and  I  looked  out  of  the  window. 
Some  one  got  out  of  the  cab  and  handed  Lilla 
to  the  door-step.  She  was  in  opera  costume — 
wherever  on  earth  she  had  got  it — and  she 
looked  indeed  very  attractive,  and  apparently 
very  joyous,  as  she  tripped  up  the  steps.  It 
was  an  elderly  gentleman  who  accompanied 
her.  I  could  see  his  iron-gray  hair  and  rather 
red  face.  Lilla  opened  the  door  with  her  latch- 
key, while  he  got  into  the  cab  and  drove  off. 
I  could  hear  him  giving  directions  to  the  cab- 
man in  a  peculiarly  strident  voice.  Lilla  crept 
very  softly  down  stairs,  where  I  suppose  her 
mother  was  still  sitting  up  for  her. 

Next  morning  I  chanced  to  meet  my  young 
friend. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Banks,"  she  broke  out,  "I  have 
such  a  headache !" 

"You  were  dissipating  last  night,"  I  an- 
swered. "That  is  what  comes  of  late  hours." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  Did  you  see  me  come 
in?" 

"Yes,  that  I  did." 

"  I  am  so  glad  !     Did  I  look  well  ?" 

"Charming." 

"  Did  I  really  ?  Yes ;  my  uncle  took  me  to 
the  Opera,  and  gave  me  the  dress  and  cloak  to 


go  in — was  not  that  kind  of  him  ? — and  it  was 
o  delightful ! " 

"The  music ?     What  opera  was  it ?" 

"Oh!  Fidelio.  But  I  didn't  care  about  the 
music ;  at  least,  I  mean  I  didn't  care  so  much 
bout  it.  I  was  so  happy,  and  delighted  with 
every  thing,  and  especially  myself.  I  was  a 
ady  for  a  whole  night !  And  we  were  in  the 
stalls — I  love  the  stalls !  I  never  was  there  be- 
fore— and  we  had  supper  afterward !  And  we 
drove  home  in  a  hansom.  Now  I  have  a  head- 
ache ;  but  I  don't  mind,  for  it's  such  a  long 
ime  since  I  had  a  new  dress;  and  I  was  so 
nappy." 

I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  poor  old  mo- 
;her  in  the  damp  kitchen,  spelling  over  her  pack 
of  cards. 

Indeed,  I  could  never  look  at  that  poor  old 
woman  without  wondering  for  what  unknown 
jurpose  she  was  ever  sent  upon  earth,  in  what 
nscrutable  way  Heaven  would  compensate  her 
n  some  world  hereafter  for  her  joyless  drudgery 
lere.  Not  merely  was  she  not  happy  herself, 
but,  with  the  kindliest  heart,  the  most  unselfish 
nature  in  the  world,  she  did  not  seem  to  have 
;he  power  of  making  any  one  else  happy.  What 
lopeless  misfortune  had  crushed  her  into  beg- 
garly inertness  so  voting  I  did  not  know :  but 
so  long,  at  least,  as  Lilla's  memory  seemed  to 
go  back,  the  lives  of  the  pair  had  been  one  un- 
intermittent,  humiliating,  demoralizing  battle 
with  poverty.  Poverty  and  drudgery  appeared 
to  have  crushed  quite  out  of  Mrs.  Lyndon  all 
the  feeling  of  religion  which  every  where  but 
in  London  seems  to  cling  to  the  old  and  the  un- 
fortunate. The  butcher  and  baker  left  her  no 
time  to  think  of  heaven.  Her  one  thought  was 
for  her  daughter :  to  get  the  pretty  girl  enough 
to  eat,  to  cook  tender  chops  for  her,  to  have  lit- 
tle dainties  for  her  breakfast  and  her  supper,  to 
keep  her  in  clothes,  to  guard  her  against  con- 
sumption, to  dream  of  her  one  day  becoming  a 
lady. 

As  for  the  daughter,  she  was  simply  a  kind- 
hearted,  bright,  clever  little  heathen,  not  surely 
incapable  of  conversion  and  training  if  any  high- 
minded  creature  could  but  take  her  in  hand. 
Just  now  no  Fayaway,  no  naked  girl  of  South 
Sea  islands,  could  be  a  more  thorough  pagan 
than  my  graceful  and  pretty  friend  Lilla  Lyn- 
don. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LILLA  WOULD   SERVE   ME. 

MEANWHILE  I  am  free  to  own  that  I  liked 
the  company  of  my  pretty  pagan;  indeed  it 
brightened  life  very  much  to  me.  When  I  was 
most  lonely  and  unfriended  these  people  had 
been  strangely  kind  to  me,  and  our  common 
poverty  and  struggles  made  us — I  was  almost 
about  to  say  unnaturally— certainly  unusually 
familiar  and  friendly.  Ofcourse  no  young  man 
of  my  age  could  ever  be  wholly  indifferent  tq 
the  company  of  a  pretty  and  attractive  girl ;  and 


36 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


I  really  grew  quite  fond  of  Lilla.  I  was  not  in 
the  least  in  love  with  her ;  nor  did  she,  I  feel 
assured,  ever  think  of  me  in  the  light  of  a  pos- 
sible lover ;  but  we  were  very  friendly  and  fa- 
miliar, and  indeed,  in  a  sort  of  quiet,  confident 
way,  attached  to  each  other.  A  happy  Bohe- 
mian independence  of  public  opinion  emanci- 
pated our  movements.  She  and  I  generally 
walked  out  together  on  Sundays  in  the  desolate 
suburbs,  or  across  the  swamp  which  was  under- 
going slow  conversion  into  a  park.  Sometimes, 
as  I  came  home  in  the  evening  after  giving  some 
music-lessons — or,  for  that  matter,  tuning  a  pi- 
ano— I  met  her  going  toward  town,  and  I  turned 
back  and  walked  with  her.  Much  amazed  I  used 
to  be  at  first  by  her  close  knowledge  of  the  short- 
est way  to  get  every  where,  and  of  every  shop 
where  the  best  things  to  eat,  or  wear,  or  drink 
were  to  be  had  at  the  lowest  possible  prices. 

Our  talk  was  generally  lively  enough ;  but 
there  were  days  when  I  became  so  saddened  by 
my  memories  and  my  dull  prospects  that  I 
really  could  not  brighten;  and  then  Lilla,  in 
order  to  encourage  me,  told  me  all  kinds  of 
stories  of  her  own  occasional  trials  and  dis- 
tresses, as  well  as  of  people  she  had  known, 
who,  having  been  reduced  to  the  very  depths 
of  despair,  fell  in  with  some  lucky  fortune,  and 
were  raised  at  once  to  high  position  and  afflu- 
ence. Most  of  those  stories,  to  be  sure,  were 
told  of  young  women  reduced  to  serve  in  shops, 
whom  some  men  of  enormous  wealth  fell  in  love 
with  and  married ;  so  that  I  could  scarcely  de- 
rive much  encouragement  from  their  applica- 
tion to  my  own  personal  condition.  But  it  was 
easy  to  see  with  what  a  horizon  fortune  had 
bounded  poor  Lilla's  earthly  ambition.  She 
had  no  genius  for  any  work  that  did  not  direct- 
ly conduce  to  personal  adornment,  and  she  had 
a  very  strong  desire  for  wealth  and  ease. 

"  My  only  chance,"  she  said  frankly  one  day, 
"is  to  marry  somebody  who  has  money.  I  am 
sick  of  this  place  and  this  life.  If  I  married  a 
rich  green-grocer  even,  I  should  be  far,  far  hap- 
pier than  I  am.  I  should  have  a  home  for  my 
mother,  and  a  cart  to  drive  about  in  on  Sun- 
days, when  the  green-grocer  did  not  want  it 
for  his  business ;  and  then  mother  and  I  would 
leave  him  at  home  on  the  Sundays  to  smoke  in 
the  back-kitchen  while  we  went  out  for  a  drive ; 
and  we  could  call  for  you  and  take  you  with 
us.  I  must  marry  somebody  with  money." 

"  Suppose,  in  the  mean  time,  somebody  with- 
out money  comes  in  the  way,  and  you  fall  in 
love  with  him  ?" 

"  Love  ?  Nonsense  !  Love  is  a  luxury  be- 
yond my  means,  Sir.  Besides,  do  you  know,  I 
think  debts  and  poverty  make  some  of  us  cold- 
hearted  or  no-hearted,  and  we  are  not  capable 
of  falling  in  love.  Seriously,  I  don't  think  I 
could  be." 

"Then  I  hope  no  friend  of  mine  will  fall  in 
love  with  you." 

"I  am  sure  I  hope  not — unless  he  has  money. 
I  don't  believe  I  have  such  a  thing  as  a  heart." 

"  You  ought  to  have  told  me  all  this  before, 


Lilla.     How  do  you  know  what  agony  you  may 
be  inflicting  on  my  heart  ?" 

I  thought  she  would  have  laughed  at  this,  but 
she  looked  at  me  quite  gravely,  and  even  sym- 
pathetically. 

"Ah,  no  !"  she  said,  quietly  ;  "  you  are  safe 
enough— from  me  at  least;  I  can  see  that." 

"  Why,  Miss  Lyndon  ?     Pray  tell  me. " 

"  Don't  ask  me ;  but  don't  think  me  a  fool. 
Have  I  not  eyes ?  Can't  I. see  that  your  heart 
is  gone  long  ago  in  some  disastrous  way  or  oth- 
er, and  that  you  can't  recover  it ;  and  don't  you 
think  I  am  sorry  for  you  ?  Yes,  as  much  as  if 
you  were  my  brother." 

"Ah,  Lilla,  you  have  far  more  heart  than 
you  would  have  me  think.  Not  your  eyes  saw, 
but  your  heart." 

And  we  neither  spoke  any  more  on  that  sub- 
ject. But  I  knew  that  under  my  pretty  pagan's 
plump  bosom  there  beat  a  heart  which  the  love 
of  lobster-salad,  and  the  hopes  of  a  rich  hus- 
band, and  all  the  duty  of  dodging  duns,  could 
not  rob  of  its  genial  blood-warmth. 

Lilla  had,  like  most  London  girls  of  her  class 
and  temperament,  a  passion  for  the  theatre. 
She  knew  the  ways  of  every  theatre,  and  some- 
thing about  the  private  lives  of  all  the  actors 
and  actresses,  and  who  was  married  to  whom, 
and  who  were  not  married  at  all,  and  who  was 
in  debt,  and  who  made  ever  so  much  money  in 
the  year,  and  spent  it  or  hoarded  it,  as  the  case 
might  be.  She  pointed  you  out  a  small  cigar- 
shop,  and  told  you  it  was  kept  by  the  father  of 
MissVashner,  the  great  tragic  actress;  she  called 
your  attention  to  a  small  coal-and-potato  store, 
and  told  you  it  was  there  Mr.  Wagstaffe,  the 
great  manager,  began  his  career ;  she  glanced 
at  a  beery,  snuffy  little  man  in  the  street,  and 
whispered  that  he  was  the  husband  of  the  dash- 
ing Violet  Schonbein,  who  played  the  male  parts 
in  the  burlesques  and  pantomimes,  and  whose 
figure  was  the  admiration  of  London.  Her  in- 
terest did  not  lie  so  much  in  the  stately  opera- 
houses,  or  even  the  theatres  where  legitimate 
tragedy  yet  feebly  protested  its  legitimacy  and 
divine  right,  as  in  the  small  pleasant  houses 
where  comedians  and  piquant  actresses  could 
always  fill  the  benches.  She  knew  where  the 
best  seats  were,  and  how  to  make  use  of  an 
order  to  most  advantage ;  and,  indeed,  seemed 
hardly  ever  to  have  gone  to  a  theatre  except  in 
the  company  of  somebody  armed  with  such  a 
missive.  She  had  been  to  parties  of  all  kinds 
— to  Kew,  to  Richmond,  to  Vauxhall  (yes,  I 
think  there  was  a  Vauxhall  then),  to  Green- 
wich, to  Dulwich,  to  Rosherville.  She  ap- 
peared to  have  an  intimate  knowledge  of  all 
places  where  supper  was  to  be  most  comforta- 
bly and  cheaply  had  in  the  neighborhood  of 
each  theatre.  She  had  been  to  the  Derby; 
and  she  never  missed  seeing  the  Queen  going 
to  open  Parliament,  or  even  the  Loj-d  Mayor's 
Show.  She  knew  all  about  the  great  people 
of  London — the  Duchess  of  Sutherland,  Lady 
Palmerston,  and  the  like  ;  and,  by  some  strange 
process  of  information,  she  often  used  to  get  to 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


37 


know  beforehand  when  grand  balls  were  given 
jn  the  neighborhood  of  Belgrave  Square  or 
Park  Lane,  and  she  loved  to  go  and  watch  at 
the  doors  to  see  the  ladies  pass  in.  Her  uncle, 
she  told  me,  had  often  promised  to  take  her  to 
the  Ladies'  Gallery  of  the  House  of  Commons 
to  hear  a  debate,  but  as  yet  he  had  not  carried 
out  his  promise.  He  took  her  to  the  National 
Gallery  and  the  Royal  Academy's  Exhibition ; 
but  she  did  not  much  care  about  these  places 
of  entertainment,  and  could  not  tell  the  name 
of  any  picture  or  painter  afterward.  Mr.  Lyn- 
don, M.P.,  clearly  wanted  to  impress  her  with 
the  necessity  of  some  sort  of  mental  culture,  for 
he  sent  her  a  new  piano  and  a  heap  of  books, 
and  made  her  promise  to  learn.  She  might 
have  mastered  most  studies  quickly  enough  had 
she  but  shown  the  same  aptitude  for  them  which 
she  had  for  picking  up  the  private  histories  of 
actresses  and  great  ladies,  for  turning  and  trim- 
ming old  dresses,  for  reviving  decayed  bonnets, 
and  for  stimulating  flat  porter,  by  the  applica- 
tion of  soda,  into  a  ghastly  likeness  of  bottled 
stout. 

I  thought  her  naturally  so  clever,  and  indeed 
I  felt  such  a  warm  interest  in  her,  that  I  set  to 
work  to  teach  her  something.  The  piano  she 
played  very  badly,  and  that  I  could  teach  her ; 
singing  I  was  likewise  qualified  to  instruct  her 
in ;  and  French  I  spoke  fluently  enough.  These, 
then,  I  offered,  and  in  fact  was  determined,  to 
teach  her ;  and  she  was  very  glad  to  learn,  and 
when  she  was  in  humor  for  it,  very  quick  and 
docile.  What  she  went  about  teaching  in  the 
families  where  she  had  tried  to  be  governess  I 
never  could  guess.  Just  now  I  was  glad  she 
knew  so  little,  and  that  there  were  some  things 
I  could  teach  her.  I  had  nothing  to  do  half 
my  time ;  I  was  lonely  and  unfriended  ;  these 
people  had  been  kind  to  me,  as  indeed  kind- 
ness was  a  part  of  their  nature,  and  I  felt  so 
grateful  that  I  was  only  too  glad  to  have  any 
chance  of  showing  my  gratitude.  So  I  became 
Lilla's  music-master  and  French  teacher  when 
I  could  and  when  she  would ;  and  Mrs.  Lyn- 
don was  delighted.  The  good  woman  trusted 
me  entirely.  She  had  so  often  told  me  what 
her  dreams  and  hopes  for  her  daughter  were, 
that  she  knew  so  poor  a  caitiff  as  myself  woulc 
never  be  mean  enough  to  play  Marplot  by  mak- 
ing love  to  Lilla.  We  were  all  poor  together, 
and  Mrs.  Lyndon  felt  that  hawks  would  noi 
pick  hawks'  eyes  out. 

Little  or  nothing  in  this  story  turns  upon  mj 
pupil-teaching  of  Lilla.  In  a  direct  sense,  no- 
thing came  of  it.  I  mention  it  here  only  t< 
explain  the  fact  that  Lilla  and  her  mother  go 
to  think  themselves  deeply  indebted  to  me,  anc 
that  Lilla  in  particular  was  determined  to  make 
me  some  return. 

One  evening  I  was  walking  rather  listlessly 
along  Sloane  Street,  feigning  to  myself  that  ; 
had  business  in  town,  when  I  met  Lilla  return 
ing  homeward.  She  was  all  flushed  and  beam 
ing,  evidently  under  the  influence  of  some  piece 
of  splendid  good  news. 


" I  have  such  news  for  you !"  she  said.      "I 
iave  been  to  my  uncle's,  and  I  have  talked  to 
im  about  you." 
"About  me?" 

"Yes.  I  always  wanted  to  speak  to  him 
,bout  you,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  go  up 
pecially  to-day  and  do  it.  I  told  him  all 
about  you ;  how  you  were  living  in  our  house, 
and  how  kind  you  had  always  been  to  mamma 
and  me — which  I'm  sure  we  don't  forget — 
vhenever  we  needed  it;  and  Heaven  knows 
we  always  do  need  it,  for  we  never  yet  were 
able  to  pay  any  thing  at  the  right  time." 

'Well,  well,  pass  over  all  that,  and  come 
back  to  Mr.  Lyndon." 

Yes,  I  told  him  all  about  you,  and  how 
were  better  tmtn  a  colony  of  sons  to  mam- 
ma, and  a  whole  schoolful  of  brothers  to  me, 
and  how  you  teach  me  this  and  that — every 
thing  in  fact.  I  can  tell  you  your  ears  ought 
to  have  tingled,  for  such  praise  as  I  gave  you 
mortal  man  never  yet  deserved.  I  told  him 
what  a  singer  you  were — ever  so  much  better 
than  Mario,  I  said ;  at  which  I  promise  you  he 
smiled  v%ry  grimly,  and  grumbled  out  that  he 
had  heard  of  too  many  singers  who  were  ever 
so  much  better  than  Mario.  But  I  told  him 
that  you  were,  and  no  mistake.  And  then  I 
said  you  wanted  to  get  on  the  stage,  only 
that  you  had  no  friends;  at  which  he  smiled 
again,  and  said  a  man  who  could  sing  better 
than  Mario  didn't  much  stand  in  need  of 
friends." 

"Well,  but,  Lilla,  I  don't  quite  see." 

"Don't  you?  No,  I  dare  say  you  don't; 
but  I  just  do.  Why,  did  I  never  tell  you  that 
my  uncle  knows  all  the  great  swells  about  the 
theatres  ?  C^i  yes.  He  once  had  a  share  in  a 
theatre  with  a  tremendous  swell,  Lord  Loreine, 
and  he  adores  operas  and  singers,  and  he  gives 
dinners  at  Greenwich  to  prima  donnas.  He  is 
constantly  behind  the  scenes  every  where — odd 
places  for  him  to  go  to,  I  have  often  told  him 
— and  every  great  singer  who  comes  out  he  al- 
ways meets.  Who  is  Reichstein  ?  Is  it  a  man 
or  a  woman  ?" 

"Reichstein  is  a  woman." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"A  singer— a  great  success  in  Paris,  I'm 
told.  I  don't  know  much  about  her — hardly 
any  thing,  in  fact.  But  she  is  new  in  Paris, 
and  I  believe  a  success." 

"Well,  he  has  been  to  Paris— indeed,  he 
only  came  home  last  night — and  he  is  in  such 
a  state  about  Reichstein,  who  is  to  come  out  in 
London  and  make  a  wonderful  success.  I  was 
ashamed  to  confess  that  I  never  heard  of  Reich- 
stein before,  and  didn't  know,  in  fact,  whether 
it  was  a  man  or  a  woman ;  and  besides,  I  told 
him  I  wanted  to  talk  about  you,  and  not  about 
Reichstein." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?" 

"  He  laughed,  and  said  '  Reichstein  could  do 
more  for  your  friend'  (my  friend,  you  under- 
stand) '  than  I  could.'  In  fact,  he  was  in  such 
a  delightful  good-humor  that  I  might  have  said 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


any  thing  to  him  to-day.  You  are  to  come  and 
see  him.  Oh  yes,  you  are ;  you'll  find  him  very 
friendly." 

"But,  indeed,  Lilla— " 
"No,  no;  I  can't. hear  any  modest  plead- 
ings. You  are  to  come ;  I  am  to  bring  you. 
You  may  be  sure  he'll  like  you ;  and,  do  you 
know,  I  really  begin  to  think  your  fortune  is 
made.  Perhaps  you  may  sing  as  primo  tenore 
with  what's-her-name,  Reichstein,  some  time. 
And  I  shall  go  to  hear  you,  and  fling  a  bouquet 
to  you — mind,  not  to  her — so  be  sure  you  keep 
it  for  yourself;  and  then  you  must  redeem  your 
promise,  and  take  me  to  the  Derby." 

"  Hear  me  swear !  You  shall  accompany  me 
to  the  Derby.  We'll  have  a  carriage  and,  at 
least,  four  horses  the  very  first  Derby-day  after 
I  have  sung  as  primo  tenore  with  Mile.  Reich- 
stein." 

"  Well,  you  may  laugh  now ;  but  I  promise 
you  I'll  make  you  keep  your  word.  Far  more 
unlikely  things  have  happened.  But  now  tell 
me  when  you  are  coming  to  see  my  uncle." 

I  had  not  the  remotest  idea  of  presenting 
myself  or  being  presented  to  Lilla's  urifcle.  All 
I  had  heard  of  him  pictured  him  to  me  as  a  cold, 
purse-proud,  selfish,  sensuous  man — not,  indeed, 
incapable  of  doing  a  generous  thing  for  a  poor 
dependent,  but  quite  incapable  of  feeling  any 
respect  for  poverty  of  any  kind.  His  photo- 
graph, which  Lilla  often  showed  me,  quite  con- 
firmed my  notions  of  him.  Egotism  and  pride 
were  traced  in  every  line  of  the  face — of  the 
straight  square  forehead,  of  the  broad  jaw — 
even  the  unmistakable  sensuousness  of  the  full 
lips  and  the  wide  mouth  did  not  soften  the  gen- 
eral hardness  of  the  expression.  I  can  not  tell 
why,  but  I  always  detested  the  man.  Patron- 
age of  any  kind  I  must  have  hated ;  but  to  be 
patronized  by  this  rich  man  was  utterly  out  of 
the  question. 

Yet  I  could  not  but  feel  grateful  for  the 
kindly  manner  in  which  poor  Lilla  had  en- 
deavored to  serve  me.  This  was  surely  disin- 
terestedness on  her  part.  She  so  often  had  to 
solicit  favors  of  her  uncle  upon  her  own  ac- 
count, that  one  might  have  imagined  a  shrewd 
and  worldly  girl  would  be  very  careful  indeed 
not  to  weaken  any  influence  she  might  have, 
not  to  discount  any  future  concessions,  by  ask- 
ing his  good  offices  for  another.  Therefore, 
while  I  attached  not  the  slightest  importance 
to  the  promised  influence,  and  would  not  have 
availed  myself  of  it  were  it  really  to  make  my 
fortune  in  an  hour,  I  took  good  care,  the  reader 
may  well  believe,  to  let  Lilla  see  that  I  was  not 
ungrateful.  Nor  did  I  dash  her  little  pride  and 
triumph  by  telling  her  that  I  would  not  go  to 
see  her  uncle.  But  I  temporized ;  and  fortune 
gave  me  a  ready  way  of  doing  it.  I  had  been 
for  some  little  time  in  negotiation  about  an  en- 
gagement to  join  a  company  who  were  to  give 
concerts  in  some  of  the  provincial  cities  and 
towns ;  and  this  very  day  I  had  accepted  the 
terms,  and  duly  signed  the  conditions.  I  had 
therefore  to  leave  town  at  once,  and  should 


probably  be  away  for  two  or  three  months  at 
the  least. 

This  therefore  gave  me  a  satisfactory  plea  for 
postponing  my  visit  to  Mr.  Lyndon. 

Lilla  was  a  little  cast  down ;  but  as  she  knew 
I  had  long  been  anxious  to  secure  this  very  en- 
gagement— my  first  of  any  note— she  brightened 
up  immediately,  and  gave  me  her  warm  con- 
gratulations. 

"When  I  get  back,  Lilla,  you  shall  make 
my  fortune." 

"  How  glad  I  shall  be !  Do  you  know  that 
I  really  hope  you  may  not  quite  take  the  prov- 
inces by  storm,,  and  so  find  the  way  made  clear 
to  you,  without  my  having  any  thing  to  do  with 
it?  I  do,  indeed.  I  want  so  much  to  be  the 
means  of  doing  some  good  for  you." 

"You  need  not  fear,  Lilla.  Fortune  will  be 
in  no  hurry  to  interfere  with  your  kindly  pur- 
pose. " 

"But  stop.  I  have  actually  done  something 
for  you  already.  I  have  given  you  a  name." 

' '  Indeed !     How  is  that  ?" 

"Well,  of  course  you  can't  call  yourself 
Banks  when  you  go  on  the  stage.  Banks 
would  never  do;  there  couldn't  be  a  great 
Banks.  Then  you  always  say  you  never 
would  consent  to  take  any  ridiculous  Italian 
name." 

"Never." 

"Well,  I  have  given  you  a  delightful  name, 
which  is  all  your  own,  by  the  simplest  process 
in  the  world.  Temple  Banks  is  absolutely  ri- 
diculous; people  would  always  keep  calling 
you  Temple  Bar.  Now  don't  be  angry." 

"Indeed  I  am  not." 

"You  got  quite  flushed  when  I  laughed  at 
your  name,  though;  but  no  matter.  Leave 
out  the  Banks  altogether,  and  there  you  are 
— Emanuel  Temple !  What  can  be  prettier 
and  softer?  All  liquids,  positively.  Well,  I 
have  made  you  Emanuel  Temple,  and  nothing 
else.  I  spoke  of  you  to  my  uncle  as  Emanuel 
Temple.  He  has  written  down  your  name  in 
his  memorandum-book  as  Emanuel  Temple.  I 
have  launched  you  as  Emanuel  Temple,  and 
Emanuel  Temple  you  shall  remain." 

Nobody  much  likes  any  chaff  about  his  name. 
I  did  not  at  first  quite  relish  my  young  friend's 
remarks,  but  I  soon  saw  there  was  some  sense 
in  them.  I  had  indeed,  for  many  reasons,  de- 
termined on  changing  my  name  in  some  way, 
and  this  slight  alteration  would  do  as  well  as 
any  other.  So  I  went  through  the  provinces  as 
Emanuel  Temple,  and  I  have  never  since  been 
publicly  known  by  any  other  name. 


CHAPTER  X. 

I  MAKE   A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE. 

SOME  few  weeks  of  professional  wandering 
among  chilling  audiences  in  country  towns, 
meeting  with  tolerable  success  in  most  places, 
brought  me  to  Dover,  and  the  first  glimpse  of 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


the  sea  I  had  enjoyed  for  years.  I  felt  boyish 
again  at  the  sight  of  my  old  confidant ;  and  the 
shining  track  of  the  moon  across  the  water 
seemed  to  mark  out  a  bright  path  back  to  the 
delightful  dream-land,  the  far-oif,  fading  Island 
of  the  Blest,  with  its  "light  of  ineffable  faces," 
whither  my  boyhood  and  my  first  love  were  ban- 
ished, the  one  seemingly  as  much  lost  to  me  as 
the  other.  Not  for  years  had  I  thought  so  bit- 
terly, so  passionately,  of  Christina  as  during  my 
short  stay  in  Dover  by  the  sea.  And  yet  she 
seemed  to  me  almost  like  a  creature  in  a  dream 
—like  some  beautiful  spirit-love,  which  had  de- 
scended upon  me  while  I  lay  in  ecstatic  delirium, 
and  faded  with  my  waking.  I  can  almost  be- 
lieve the  stories  of  men  who  have  fallen  madly 
in  love  with  the  daughters  of  dreams,  and  pined 
and  "sickened  away  their  lives  in  longing  after 
the  unreal,  and  were  glad  to  die,  that  they 
might  be  relieved  of  the  vain  tormenting  wish. 
I  pass,  however,  from  recalling  these  purely 
personal  and  egotistical  recollections  to  the  sub- 
ject which  I  meant  to  speak  of  when  I  recurred 
to  my  visit  to  Dover.  An  accidental  meeting 
there  threw  me  in  the  way  of  making  an  odd 
acquaintanceship,  which  had  no  little  influence 
afterward  on  one  part  at  least  of  my  fortunes, 
and  those  of  two  distinct  and  divided  sets  of 
persons,  whose  histories  make  indirectly  a  chap- 
ter of  mine. 

One  evening,  after  I  had  sung  at  a  concert 
and  been  somewhat  applauded,  I  went  to  have 
my  customary  stroll  by  the  sea.  I  turned  into 
a  cigar-shop  in  one  of  the  steep,  stony,  narrow 
little  streets,  chiefly  made  up  of  oyster-shops 
and  public  houses,  which  alone  are  astir  in 
Dover  after  nightfall.  I  asked  for  a  cigar, 
hardly  observing  that  somebody  else  was  be- 
ing served  with  something  by  the  young  woman 
who  stood  behind  the  counter. 

"  Glad  he's  come  in !"  said  a  full  mellow  male 
voice;  "very  glad.  He'll  decide ;  he  looks  a 
sort  of  person  who  ought  to  know." 

It  did  not  occur  to  me  that  this  could  well 
have  any  reference  to  myself,  and  so  I  asked 
again  for  a  cigar.  I  noticed  then  that  the  girl 
was  flushed  in  the  face,  and  was  biting  her  lips, 
half  amused  and  half  angry. 

"Shall  I  refer  it  to  him?"  said  the  male 
voice  again. 

"  I  really  don't  care,"  replied  the  girl,  "  whom 
you  refer  it  to ;  I've  told  you  the  price  and  the 
quality,  that's  all." 

I  looked  round,  and  saw  that  there  was  seat- 
ed on  a  chair  at  my  left  a  short,  stout,  well- 
preserved  elderly  personage,  with  black,  beady, 
twinkling  eyes,  shining  white  teeth,  a  rubicund 
complexion,  and  a  black  wig.  His  opened  lips 
had  a  full,  sensuous  expression,  and  there  was 
a  dash  of  something  in  his  whole  face  which 
vaguely  spoke  of  cruelty,  or  marked  eccentric- 
ity, or  something  else  that  is  out  of  the  common 
place  character  of  the  everyday  Briton.  There 
was  an  odd,  indefinable  mixture  about  his  ap- 
pearance and  manner  of  the  broken  down  gen- 
tleman and  the  artist.  I  should  say  that  he  was 


irobably  a  naturalized  Bohemian — one  not  born 
mong  the  gipsies,  but  who  perhaps  had  stray- 
d  into  their  encampments  in  early  life,  or  got 
hanged  at  nurse.  His  uncommon  appear- 
,nce  and  queer  ways  struck  me  at  once.  I 
ibserved  that  his  hands  were  small,  fat,  and 
jeautifully  white. 

"Then  we  refer  the  case  to  arbitration," 
:omplacently  remarked  this  personage ;  and, 
till  remaining  in  his  chair,  he  touched  his 
tat  very  graciously  to  me,  and  with  a  wave 
>f  his  hand  invited  my  attention.  "We  have 
lad  a  dispute,  Sir,  I  and  this  young  lady — her 
tame  is  Fanny ;  I  address  her  by  her  name  be- 
ause  we  are  old  acquaintances;  I  have  been 
icre  twice,  I  think — touching  the  quality  of 
hese  cigars.  She  declares  them  to  be  prime 
Havanas,  and  has  the  conscience  to  ask  eight- 
>ence  each.  /  represent  them  to  be  rather  in- 
'erior  Veveys,  and  suggest  one  penny  each,  or 
leven  for  sixpence.  On  these  terms  I  am  wili- 
ng to  treat  for  one  shilling's  worth.  I  tell  her 
'rankly  it  is  no  use  trying  to  deceive  me.  I 
lave  been  to  Havana,  and  I  have  only  just 
come  back  from  Switzerland ;  and  I  remark 
;o  her  that  I  rather  think  I  saw  the  light  at 
east  a»year  or  two  before  she  did,  and  that, 
generally  speaking,  I  have  not  knocked  about 
he  world  for  nothing.  She  refuses  to  admit 
he  force  of  these  arguments.  Fortunately  you 
lave  come  just  in  time  to  arbitrate.  You  seem 
;o  me  a  man  who  ought  to  know  tobacco  from 
dock-leaves  and  brown  paper.  Come,  then, 
low  say  you — Havana  or  Vevey  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  I  must  decline  to  arbitrate.  I 
riave  not  been  to  Havana." 

"  But  you  are  not  a  Dover  man  ?  You  don't 
belong  to  this  confounded  dirty, Disgraceful  lit- 
tle place?  Don't  tell  me." 

"No,  I  am  not  a  Dover  man." 

"  Of  course  not ;  I  knew  it. — You  see,  Fan- 
ny, it's  no  use  trying  to  deceive  me.  Take  ex- 
ample, sweet  girl."  , 

The  sweet  girl  only  tossed  her  head  and 
looked  remarkably  sour. 

"If  you're  not  going  to  'ave  the  cigars,"  she 
said,  "  I  just  wish  you'd  put  them  down,  and 
not  bother." 

"Fanny,  you  rush  to  conclusions  with  the 
impetuosity  of  your  sex.  It  must  be  some- 
thing, I  fancy,  in  the  nature  of  petticoats  that 
makes  the  wearers  of  them  so  quick  in  their 
conclusions.  No,  Fanny,  I  shall  not  put  the 
cigars  down,  because  I  do  mean  to  '  'ave  them,' 
as  you  express  it,  with  the  delicious  disregard 
of  aspirates  peculiar  to  our  common  country.  I 
mean  to  '  'ave  them'  and  to  pay  for  them,  fail- 
being,  even  at  your  own  price ;  but  I  am  anx- 
ious to  convince  you  that,  though  you  may  ex- 
tort my  money — " 

"Extort,  indeed!  I  don't  care,  I'm  sure, 
if  you  'ave  them  or  don't  'ave  them." 

"  '  'Ave  them  or  don't  'ave  them.'  Innocent 
accents  !  As  I  was  observing  when  I  was  in- 
terrupted—pray don't  go,  Sir,  one  moment— I 
want  to  convince  you  that  you  can  not  cheat 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


'NO,  I  AM  NOT  A  DOVEB  MAN. 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


me,  or  confound  my  sense  of  justice.  You  may 
fret  me,  but  you  can  not  play  upon  me.  I  am 
only  for  justice.  All  my  life  through  I  have 
stood  up  for  justice,  and  I  never  could  get  it. 
The  whole  world  and  his  wife  were  against  me, 
may  God  curse  them  all! — Look  here,  Sir!" 
And  he  jumped  off  his  seat,  and  came  close  up 
to  me,  throwing  his  hat  back  off  his  forehead 
as  he  did  so,  and  much  disarranging  his  wig 
meantime.  "Have  you  ever  been  conspired 
against,  and  hated  ?" 

"No,  I  think  not;  I  don't  know  at  least; 
and  pardon  me  if  I  say  I  don't  much  care/' 

"  And  do  you  think  /  care.  Not  I.  They 
have  done  their  best  for  years,  and  I  have  stood 
out  against  them,  and  defied  them,  and  bade 
them  go  to  the  devil;  and  just  because  they 
wouldn't  go,  and  wanted  me  very  particularly 
not  to  go  either,  I  did  my  utmost  to  go  there  as 
fast  as  possible." 

"  Which  I  do  believe  you're  going,"  muttered 
the  girl,  with  a  glance  at  me. 

"  I  am  a  victim,  Sir,  to  my  sense  of  justice, 
and  my  determination  not  to  be  conquered.  I 
left  England  when  they  wanted  me  to  stay 
here ;  I  come  back  now  because  I  know  they 
want  me  away.  I'll  spoil  their  game.  There 
are  people  would  rather  see  all  the  Beelzebubs 
and  Molochs  and  Asmodeuses,  and  the  rest  of 
them,  than  me.  Therefore  I  come.  '  Confound 
their  politics;  frustrate  their  knavish  tricks!' 
Good-evening,  Sir.  Or,  stay,  are  you  walking 
my  way,  and  will  you  permit  me  to  walk  a  lit- 
tle with  you  ?" 

I  was  'about  to  decline  very  firmly  the  prof- 
fered companionship,  but  a  supplicating  look 
from  poor  Fanny  seemed  to  beg  of  me  to  take 
him  out  of  her  way,  wheresoever  he  might  then 
desire  to  go.  So  I  was  pleased  to  be  able  to 
oblige  the  perplexed  lass,  who  seemed  half 
talked  to  death  already ;  and  it  really  did  not 
much  matter  to  me  whether  I  endured  my  new 
acquaintance's  company  for  a  few  minutes  lon- 
ger or  got  rid  of  him  at  once.  So  I  expressed 
myself  as  quite  delighted  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  his  company,  and  I  was  thanked  by  a  glance 
of  gratitude  from  under  Fanny's  eyelids. 

"  Good-night,  then,  Fanny.  Farewell,  along 
farewell,  my  Fanny ;  perchance  I  may  revisit 
thee  no  more.  I  take  these  six — Havanas  we'll 
call  them — at  your  own  valuation.  This  gen- 
tleman and  I  are  too  much  pressed  for  time  to 
enter  on  the  business  of  an  arbitration  now; 
and  besides,  I  don't  think  I  could  trust  him — 
for  he  is  young,  Fanny,  and  inexperienced — to 
arbitrate  between  me  and  so  pretty  a  girl  as 
yourself.  Between  man  and  man  is  easy  arbi- 
tration, Fanny  ;  but  between  man  and  woman 
is  trying  work.  Six  cigars  at  eightpence  each ; 
six  times  eight,  forty-eight— four  shillings.  The 
roof  does  not  fall  in,  Fanny !  I  perceive  that 
the  Powers  above  have  no  intention  of  interfer- 
ing to  punish  or  prevent  fraud  ;  and  I  have  only 
to  pay.  There  are  the  four  shillings.  Fare- 
well, Fanny;  repent,  and  remember  me!— 
Now,  then,  Sir,  at  your  service." 


I  followed  my  whimsical  acquaintance.  I 
)bserved  that  all  his  clothes  were  of  foreign  cut 
and  fashion,  and  looked  rather  decaying.  In- 
deed, he  might  have  been  taken  for  a  shabby 
old  Frenchman  who  had  once  been  in  good  so- 
ciety, but  for  his  voice  and  accent.  These  were 
unmistakably  English.  His  voice  was  pecul- 
arly  sweet,  full,  and  mellow,  and  its  natural  in- 
;onation  when  he  dropped  the  manner  of  roist- 
ering buffoonery,  which  seemed  to  me  purpose- 
y  put  on,  was 'decidedly  that  of  an  educated 
English  gentleman. 

;<  That's  a  pretty  little  devil,"  remarked  my 
friend  as  we  emerged  from  a  dark  street  sud- 
denly into  the  moonlight  of  the  quay. 

'  The  girl  in  the  shop?" 

;'As  if  you  didn't  know  at  once  whom  I 
meant !  Of  course  the  girl  in  the  shop— I  dare 
say  you'll  be  found  dropping  in  upon  her  again. " 

"Not  likely  at  all." 

"Lord,  Lord,  how  this  world  is  given  toly- 
ng !  Don't  be  offended,  Sir  ;  I  have  only  been 
quoting  Jack  Falstaff." 

"I  know,  and  I  am  not  offended." 

!<  Thanks  ;  I  begin  to  think  you  are  rather  a 
good  sort  of  fellow  in  your  way,  and  I  only  of- 
fend, people  I  don't  like.  But  you  know  very 
well,  you  sly  rogue,  you'll  be  looking  in  upon 
ittle  Fanny" again.  I  saw  telegraphic  glances 
sassing  between  you." 

"  I  don't  care  one  rush  ever  to  see  her  again. 
and  I  don't  mean  to." 

"  How  odd !  They  tell  me  young  fellows  in 
England  are  greatly  changed  since  my  time. 
Apparently  so.  When  I  was  your  age  I  should 
have  liked  to  see  such  a  girl  more  than  once. 
Even  now,  I  can  assure  you,  I  am  a  martyr,  a 
positive  martyr,  to  my  general  affection  for  the 
petticoat.  But  look  there !  God !  how  can  a 
man  talk  of  petticoats,  and  such  fribbles  and 
frou-frou,  when  he  has  a  sight  like  that  before 
him  ?" 

He  pointed  to  the  sea.  We  had  reached  a 
part  of  the  road  from  which  you  looked,  on  the 
one  hand,  at  the  grand  old  castle  and  the  white 
cliffs ;  on  the  other,  out  across  the  waves,  where- 
on the  soft  moonlight  of  late  summer  seemed 
floating.  The  muffled,  gentle  thunder  of  the 
waters  rolling  languidly  and  heavily  on  the 
strand  was  in  our  ears ;  the  scent  of  the  salt 
sea  in  our  nostrils ;  the  summer  air  all  around 
us ;  the  moon  and  the  sea  before  our  eyes.  It 
was  indeed  a  scene  to  refine  even  vulgarity,  to 
solemnize  frivolity. 

My  friend  took  off  his  hat,  and  stood  gazing 
on  the  sea.  Presently  I  heard  him  murmur,  in 
his  deep  soft  tones  : 

"For  I  have  loved,  O  Lord,  the  beauty  of 
thy  house,  and  the  place  where  thine  honor 
dwelleth." 

He  presently  turned  to  me : 

"  Do  you  think  it  will  avail  a  man  hereafter 
to  plead'  that  he  has  loved  the  beauty  of  His 
house  ?" 

"Surely,  surely;  at  least  I  hope  so." 

"  Then  you  are  an  artist."     This  was  said  in 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


the  tone  of  one  who  has  suddenly  made  a  grat- 
ifying discovery. 

"Well,  a  sort  of  artist;  at  least  not  wholly 
without  some  kind  of  artistic  taste." 

"  You  believe  in  beauty,  don't  you  ?  Now, 
don't  give  me  any  vague  commonplace  answer 
—  I  hate  cant  and  parroting  of  any  kind.  If 
you  don't  believe  in  it,  or  if  you  don't  quite 
know  what  I  mean  when  I  ask  you  the  question, 
then  say  you  don't,  and  let  there  be  an  end  of 
it.  A  man  may  be  a  devilish  good  fellow  al- 
though he  has  no  more  soul  for  beauty  than  that 
rock  yonder  >.  and  let  me  tell  you  a  man  may  be 
a  devilish  bad  fellow,  and  guilty  of  pretty  well 
every  sin  that  ever  came  in  his  way,  although 
he  is  open  at  every  pore  to  the  contagion  of 
beauty  wherever  it  shows  itself,  in  a  wave  or  a 
moonbeam  or  a  woman's  bosom.  The  thing  is, 
do  you  believe  in  beauty  ?  Because,  if  not,  we 
had  better  walk  on,  and  talk  about  oysters  and 
cigars.  " 

I  never  was  fluent  with  confessions  of  faith 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment  ;  and  I  was  not  quite 
clear  about  the  perfect  sanity  of  my  companion. 
However,  I  answered  quite  truly  that  I  thought 
I  might  describe  myself  as,  in  his  sense,  a  be- 
liever in  beauty. 

"Good  —  we  are  companions.  Now,  then, 
let  us  look  at  that  scene  for  a  little,  and,  like  a 
good  fellow,  don't  keep  talking  all  the  while." 
(I  had  not  uttered  six  sentences  the.?  far  during 
our  walk.)  "  Such  a  sight  must  be  enjoyed  in 
silence.  It  is  holy;  yes,  damn  me,  but  it  is." 
After  this  pious  affirmation  he  relapsed  into 
silence  —  only,  however,  for  a  few  minutes. 

"I  have  been  an  artist,"  he  said  ;  "  at  least 
I  tried  to  paint  pictures.  I  think  they  were 
very  good,  but  they  didn't  come  to  any  thing  ; 
in.  fact,  with  me  nothing  comes  to  any  thing.  I 
was  brought  up  to  be  a  gentleman,  and  that 
didn't  prosper  much  with  me.  I've  been  a  bal- 
lad-singer —  fact  !  give  you  my  word  on  it.  I've 
sung  in  London  squares,  outside  the  windows 
of  houses  Avhere  I've  many  a  time  dined  ;  and 
they've  sent  out  the  confounded  flunky  to  tell 
me  to  move  on.  True,  every  word  of  it!" 
And  he  burst  into  a  loud  peal  of  laughter  which 
waked  the  echoes  of  the  cliffs,  and  sounded  like 
a  startling,  hideous  profanity  of  the  stillness 
and  the  scene. 

"The  singing  did  not  prosper?"  I  asked, 
calmly,  not  out  of  any  particular  curiosity,  but 
to  interpose  any  question  which  might  check  his 
dissonant  mirth. 

"Not  it  !  Nothing,  I  have  told  you  already, 
ever  does  prosper  with  me  ;  and  yet  they  can't 
get  rid  of  me,  I  can  tell  you." 


'  '  Yes,  they.     What  is  it  to  you  who  they  are, 
or  what  their  accursed  names  are?" 

"I  assure  you,  I  don't  want  to  know  at  all." 
"They?  I'll  tell  you  who  they  are.  The 
Pharisees,  the  publicans,  the  respectable  hypo- 
crites, the  cold,  confounded,  bloodless,  sinless 
devils.  Look  here,  and  answer  me  truly  —  did 
you  ever  do  a  virtuous  action  ?" 


"Eeally,  that  depends—" 
"No,  it  doesn't;  it  depends  on  nothing. 
Did  you  ever  do  any  thing  that  was  really  vir- 
tuous and  self-denying,  that  you  would  much 
rather  not  have  done,  but  did  because  virtuous 
people  asked  you  to  do  it  ?  Any  thing  of  that 
sort  have  you  ever  done  ?" 

"Well,  if  you  press  me  for  an  answer,  I  must 
say  I  don't  believe  I  ever  did." 

"Of  course  you  never  did.     Well,  I  did 
once !     You'll  not  catch  me  doing  such  a  thing 
again,  I  can  tell  you ;  it  played  the  devil  with 
me.     I've  done — and  I  had  done  before  that— 
about  every  foolish  and  bad  thing  a  man  could 
do ;  but  I  might  have  been  forgiven  every  thing 
except  the  one  sacrifice  to  virtue.     And  it  was 
such  a  sacrifice !     If  you  only  knew !     No  mat- 
ter.    Are  you  leaving  Dover  soon  ?" 
"In  a  day  or  two." 
"  Going  over,  no  doubt?" 
He  nodded  in  the  direction  where  the  French 
coast  lay,  now,  of  course,  wholly  lost  to  sight. 

"  No.     I  am  going  to  visit  a  few  towns  here 
in  the  south." 
"And  then?" 
"Then  to  London." 
"Where  you  live ?" 
"Where  I  live." 

"Good.  I  am  going  to  live  there  too — un- 
less I  happen  to  starve  there — for  a  while.  I 
have  a  few  coins  left.  I  should  think  a  week 
of  very  rigid  economy  would  play  them  out,  and 
Heaven  knows  into  what  company  of  thieves  I 
may  fall  meantime." 

Something  prompted  me  to  say,  with,  more 
emphasis  than  if  the  words  were  merely  formal, 
"  I  hope  we  may  meet  in  London." 
He  laughed  a  short  laugh. 
"Well," he  said,  "/  hope  so  too;  but  if,  as 
the  final  result  of  our  meeting,  you  are  particu- 
larly glad  of  the  acquaintance,  I  think  you'll  be 
about  the  first  that  ever  had  occasion  to  express 
such  a  sentiment.  And  yet  I  love  mankind ; 
and  I  really  don't  try  to  do  harm  to  any  body, 
except  to  some  very,  very  near  and  dear  rela- 
tives.— I  suppose  London  stands  where  it  did, 
and  is  much  the  same  as  usual  ?" 

"Just  as  it  was  so  long  as  I  can  remember  it." 
"I  thought  so.  All  the  young  men  wise, 
and  all  the  young  women  virtuous.  All  the 
marriages  made  in  heaven,  and  all  husbands 
devoted  to  their  wives.  All  brothers,  of  course, 
living  together  in  love  and  harmony.  A  blessed 
place !  Naturally  just  the  place  for  me :  so  I 
am  going  there.  I  have  not  been  there  for 
years ;  but  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  its  beatific 
condition  remains  still  unaltered." 

He  snapped  his  fingers,  and  turned  abruptly 
away  from  me.  Just  as  I  thought  I  had  got 
rid  of  him,  however,  he  wheeled  round  and 
came  sharply  up  to  me  again. 

"Do  you  know  any  body  in  London?"  he 
asked. 

"  Very  few  people.  In  your  sense  I  should 
perhaps  say  nobody." 

"  Any  members  of  parliament,  for  example  ?" 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


43 


"Not  one." 

"  Ah,  that's  a  pity !  Some  of  them  are  such 
noble  fellows ;  7  know  some  of  them.  I  know 
one  in  particular,  and  I  am  very  fond  of  him. 
His  name  is  Tommy  Goodboy.  An  odd  name, 
isn't  it?  But  it's  his  name.  Don't  look  in 
Dod  when  you  get  home  for  Tommy  Goodboy, 
Esq.,  M.P.,  because  he  doesn't  give  his  real 
name  when  he  goes  to  the  House  of  Commons. 
But  he's  Tommy  Goodboy.  You  remember 
the  story  of  Tommy  and  Harry  ?  Harry  didn't 
care ;  and  so  a  roaring  lion  came  and  ate  him 
up.  That  was  convenient  for  the  good  people, 
the  respectable  and  well-behaved  people.  The 
deuce  of  the  thing  would  have  been  if  Harry 
didn't  get  eaten,  but  came  back  all  alive,  and 
kept  tormenting  Tommy  out  of  his  wretched, 
pitiful  existence,  disgracing  him,  crouching  at 
his  door  like  Lazarus,  and  offending  the  guests 
whom  Tommy  invited  to  dinner.— By-the-way, 
I  take  it  for  granted  you  are  hard  up?" 

"Well,  I  certainly  am  not  Dives.  No  beg- 
gar would  care  to  wait  at  my  door." 

* '  No,  I  thought  not.  You  dress  well  enough ; 
but  there  is  something  unmistakable  about  the 
cut  of  the  man  who  is  hard  up.  '  Poor  devil' 
is  written  in  every  line  of  you ;  and  yet  I  should 
say  you  are  a  sort  of  fellow  who  will  burst  out 
of  all  that  and  get  on.  Unlike  me  in  that  re- 
spect ;  I  am  a  poor  devil,  and  I  never  shall  get 
on.  Good-night.  I  dare  say  we  shall  meet 
again  somewhere.  I  am  going  back  to  the 
town.  I  know  a  very  pleasant  place  where 
oysters  are  eaten,  and  brarfdy  is  drunk,  and 
songs  are  sung ;  and  I  am  a  sort  of  king  of  the 
feast  there.  They  are  all  low  scoundrels,  and 
I'm  a  kind  of  lord  and  patron  among  them.  I 
don!t  suppose  it's  any  use  asking  you  to  come." 
"Thanks,  no;  not  the  slightest." 
"No,  you  don't  seem  just  the  sort  of  person 
to  enliven  a  convivial  gathering.  I  know,what's 
the  matter  with  you.  Don't  be  cast  down,  man ; 
.  you  and  she  will  meet  again  yet." 

His  idle  words  did,  I  suppose,  make  me  give 
a  slight  start ;  for  he  laughed  his  chuckling, 
rolling  laugh,  and  said  : 

"  So  I  have  touched  you !  I  thought  as  much. 
Confound  it,  man !  you're  as  fortunate  as  one 
of  Virgil's  rustics,  if  you  only  knew  your  owi 
good  luck.  The  best  thing  that  can  happen  to 
you  is  never  to  see  her  again ;  and  to  keep  \\\ 
your  poetry,  and  romance,  and  despair,  and  al 
the  rest  of  the  nonsense.  Take  my  word  for 
it,  if  you  have  the  misfortune  to  marry  her. 
you'll  soon  find  the, poetry  and  the  romance 
sponged  out,  and  you'll  be  glad  to  join  me  al 
the  oysters  and  the  brandy !  Despairing  lover, 
I  envy  you  from  my  soul !  By  God,  I  do !  I 
would  give  the  crown  of  England,  if  I  had  it 
to  be  young  like  you,  and  to  be  disappointed  in 
love.  It's  glorious !  Confound  it,  you've  mad 
me  so  envious  that  I'll  leave  you  with  a  parting 
malediction.  May  the  devil  inspire  her  to  mar 
ry  you !" 

He  burst  into  his  laugh  again,  and  trottec 
away  at  last  townward.  I  was  glad  to  get  ri 


f  him  ;  indeed,  for  the  last  few  minutes  of  the 
onversation  I  was  plagued  by  a  strong  desire 

0  kick  him — a  performance  hardly  practicable> 
eeing  that  he  was  old  enough  to  be  my  father, 
nd  only  half  my  size.     Yet  it  was  strange  with^ 

what  interest  I  had  been  studying  his  face,  his* 
-oice,  his  gestures  all  the  time  that  he  was  speak- 
ng.  I  felt  perfectly  satisfied  that  I  had  never 
een  him  before,  and  yet  there  was  something 
ormentingly,  tantalizingly  familiar  to  me  in  his 
eatures.  It  was  some  shadowy,  quick-darting 
•esemblance  which  every  now  and  then  seemed 
just  on  the  point  of  revealing  itself,  but  always 
anished  at  the  most  critical  moment.  As  one 
ortures  himself  in  trying  to  recall  a  name  which 
s  every  instant  on  the  tip  of  the  tongue  and  yet 
will  not  come  out,  so  I  perplexed  myself  in 
ain  endeavors  to  read  the  riddle  of  his  face 
and  voice.  Strangely,  too,  it  seemed  to  remind 
me,  as  well  as  I  could  understand  my  own  sen- 
sations, not  of  one,  but  of  two  faces  I  had  some- 
where seen.  The  upper  part  of  the  face,  the 
bright  twinkling  eyes,  the  straight  short  nose, 
he  cheek-bones  just  a  little  high,  the  white 
forehead — these  were  features  which  reminded 
me  of  something  that  brought  with  it  genial  and 
kindly  associations  ;  while  the  sensuous  lips  and 
cruel  jaw  recalled  something  which  was  harsh 
and  displeasing  to  remember.  I  racked  my 
brain  again  and  again  ;  and  indeed  I  think  that 

1  dreamed  of  the  creature  half  through  the 
night,  and  thought  I  saw  him  turning  before 
my  eyes  into  the  successive  resemblances  of 
nearly  every  man  I  knew.     But  I  awoke  in  the 
morning  with  the  riddle  still  unexplained,  and 
at  last  I  resolutely  pu£  it  aside  altogether. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MY   NEW    FRIEND   IN   A   NEW    CHARACTER. 

THAT  night  we  gave  another  concert ;  it  was 
well  attended,  and  successful.  When  I  came 
on  to  take  part  in  a  duet  with  some  woman  I 
naturally  looked  round  the  hall,  and  to  my  min- 
gled amusement  and  vexation  I  saw  my  friend 
of  the  previous  night  seated  in  the  reserved 
part  of  the  hall,  and  listening  with  his  head  a 
little  to  one  side,  and  all  the  manner  of  a  pro- 
fessed connoisseur.  He  beat  time  gently  with 
his  fingers ;  he  nodded  his  head  and  smiled  a 
sweet  approving  smile  when  some  passage  was 
specially  well  executed ;  his  brows  contracted 
and  he  shook  his  head  in  indignant  remon- 
strance at  any  thing  out  of  time  or  tune.  To 
do  him  justice,  he  really  did  seem  to  know 
something  about  the  music,  which  hardly  any 
body  else  among  the  audience  did.  Therefore 
he  took  quite  a  leading  part  in  the  reserved 
seats,  looked  blandly  but  commandingly  around, 
and  intimated  with  eye  or  gesture  where  ap- 
plause might  properly  be  awarded  ;  frowned 
fiercely  down  any  untimely  burst  coming  in  at 
a  wrong  place;  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
shuddered  when  a  breath  of  wholly  unmerited 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 

approval  floated  past  him;  cried  bravo  to  a  I  finally  nodded  a  good-humored,  peremptory 
singer,  brava  to  a  songstress,  bravi  when  more  adieu,  and  literally  broke  away  from  him' 
than  one  performer  conquered  his  approval;  Whereupon  my  friend  first  stamped  on  the 

pavement,  muttered  something  about  canaille, 


expressed  in  audible  tones  his  final  verdict  on 
^ach  performance ;  and,  in  short,  conducted 
himself  quite  as  one  whose  judgment  artists 
and  audience  had  alike  agreed  to  recognize. 
Whether  he  remembered  me  or  not  I  could  not 
guess,  for  his  face  gave  no  token  of  recognition. 
But  when  I  came  on,  I  observed  that  he  took, 
with  an  air  of  gracious  friendliness,  the  pro- 
gramme from  the  lap  of  a  lady  who  sat  next 
him,  and  raising  a  double  eye-glass  which  he 
wore,  looked  down  the  bill  apparently  to  dis- 
cover my  name.  He  was  very  patronizing  in 
his  treatment  of  me  ;  only  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders once  or  twice,  and  several  times  tapped 
his  palms  together  and  cried  ' '  bravo ! "  Indeed, 
I  think  he  encouraged,  at  all  events  he  per- 
mitted, an  encore  of  one  of  my  ballads.  He 
showed  to  most  advantage,  however,  during 


then  swore  a  round  Saxon  oath  or  two,  then 
burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  went  laughing  and 
stamping  down  the  street. 

I  passed  him  quite  closely.  He  did  not  ob- 
serve me ;  at  least  he  took  no  notice  whatever 
of  me.  He  was  talking  to  himself. 

"  The  society  of  the  just  declines  to  have  me 
this  night,"  I  heard  him  say.  "I  have  given 
it  the  chance,  once,  twice.  The  stuck-up  Brit- 
oness  scorns  my  attentions,  confound  her !  I 
wish  she  was  Boadicea,  and  I  one  of  the  Roman 
conquerors,  furnished  with  a  good  birchen  rod. 
Neither  will  the  frog-eating,  fantastic  fribble  of 
France  invite  me  to  sup  with  himself  and  his 
wife.  Afraid  to  run  such  a  risk  with  her,  no 
doubt.  I  don't  wonder.  I  can't  sit  at  good 
men's  feasts  to-night.  No  help  for  it.  There 


the  second  part  of  the  concert,  which  was  made    are  worse  things  than  bad  men's  feasts,  that's 


up  of  selections  from  an  oratorio.     Impressed 
strongly  by  his  manner,  and  apparently  anxious 
to  do  some  act  of  homage  to  so  accomplished 
critic,  the  lady  next  him  offered  to  allow  him 
to  read  from  the  score  of  the  oratorio  she  had 
with  her.     His  manner  of  surprised,  amused, 
pitying,  condescending  rejection  of  the  proffered 
kindness  was  sublime.    The  shrug  of  the  shoul- 
ders, the  raising  of  the  eyebrows,  the  graceful, 
lordly  waving  of  the  disclaiming  hand,  the  bend 
of  the  head,  the  benign,  superior  smile,  all  said 
as  plainly  as  words  could  have  spoken  it :  "  My 
dear  Madame,  do  you  really  suppose  there  is 
one  note,  one  half-note  of  this  music  that  is  not 
familiar  to  me  as  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  ?    A 
thousand  thanks  for  your  well-meant  offer ;  but 
pardon  me  if  I  say  that  it  really  does  amuse  me." 
When  I  was  leaving  the  hall  at  the  end  of 
the  performance  I  caught  another  glimpse  of 
my  friend.     He  was  making  himself  painfully 
attentive  to  two  ladies,  perhaps  those  who  had 
sat  next  to  him,  by  insisting  on  opening  their 
carriage-door  for  them,  handing  them  in,  ar- 
ranging their  skirts,  and  otherwise  playing  the 
gallant,  much  to  their  apparent  vexation.     He 
then  shut  the  carriage-door,  took  off  his  hat  and 
bowed  profoundly,  and  in  a  loud  tone  gave  the 
coachman  his  order  for  "home."     I  watched 
him  for  a  while  with  considerable  amusement. 
He  then  stood  on  the  pavement  and  scrutinized 
the  crowd  coming  out.    A  lady  and  gentleman 
came  out,  talking  together  in  French.      The 
sound  struck  my  friend's  ears ;  he  at  once  ap- 
proached them,  took  off  his  hat,  made  a  bow, 
and  addressed   them  in  a  voluble  stream  of 
French,  accompanying  his  words  with  such  ges- 
tures and  shrugs  and  elevation  of  eyebrows,  that 
he  seemed  to  have  transformed  himself  into  a 
very  Frenchman  all  in  a  moment.     I  do  not 
know  whether  he  was  really  passing  himself  off 
as  a  Frenchman,  but  the  persons  he  addressed 
stopped  and  conversed  with  him  for  a  moment 
or  two,  then  seemed  to  be  puzzled  by  him,  then 


one  comfort." 

I  did  not  care  to  give  him  the  chance  of  fas- 
tening on  me,  whether  he  chose  to  regard  me 
as  of  the  good  or  of  the  bad  ;  so  I  hurried  away, 
and  so  far  I  escaped. 

I  walked  and  smoked  a  good  deal  by  the  sea- 
side that  night,  and  enjoyed  the  solitude  and 
the  beauty  of  the  place.  In  a  very  few  days  I 
was  to  return  to  London,  after  an  absence  that 
had  now  spread  over  some  months — my  first 
absence,  even  for  a  week,  since  I  had  come  to 
live  in  the  great  city.  I  thought  of  Lilla  and 
her  good-natured  undertaking  to  make  my  for- 
tune through  her  uncle's  influence,  and 'won- 
dered how  I  should  be  able  to  get  rid  of  the 
offer  without  wounding  her,  or  seeming  un- 
grateful for  her  kindness.  If  I  could  only 
spread  out  my  provincial  engagement  for  even 
a  fortnight  or  three  weeks  longer,  the  season 
would  be  over  by  the  time  I  had  returned  to 
town,  and  Mr.  Lyndon  would  probably  have  be- 
taken himself  to  Ems,  or  Baden,  or  Florence, 
and  the  difficulty  would  be  obviated  for  another 
season  at  least. 

I  could  not  think  of  such  things  without 
meditating  rather  sadly  over  my  own  dreary 
life  and  blank  future,  and  then  falling  into  the 
old,  old  track  of  thought  about  my  lost  Christina, 
who  had  so  literally  disappeared  out  of  my  life. 
Strange,  that  in  wandering  about  London  I  had 
never  met  even  Ned  Lambert,  our  quondam 
)ass-singer ;  who  might  perhaps  have  told  me 
something  of  her — whose  face  would  at  least 
lave  recalled  more  vividly  the  associations  of 
he  dear,  fading  days  of  long  ago.  Poor  Ned 
Lambert!  he  must  have  suffered  much.  But, 
good  Heavens,  what  could  his  sufferings  have 
)een  to  mine !  He  at  least  was  not  first  raised 
ip  to  happiness  and  then  flung  down  to  despair ; 
while  I — O  Heaven,  how  happy  I  was  once ! 

Of  late  I  found  myself  growing  quite  moody 
nd  moping.     I  began  to  think  I  was  getting 
prematurely  old,  and  to  look  out  of  mornings 


evidently  became   anxious  to  shake  him  off,  j  for  gray  hairs — at  eight-and-twenty ! 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


45 


I  turned  away  from  the  sea-shore,  and  walked 
homeward  through  the  town.  Passing  through 
one  of  the  streets  I  heard  noise,  clamor,  shout- 
ing, cursing,  stamping — apparently  going  on  in 
a  low  public  house,  the  light  from  whose  win- 
dows was  the  only  bright  spot  along  that  side 
of  the  street.  As  I  came  up  to  the  place  its 
swing-doors  were  suddenly  flung  open,  and  the 
"row"  streamed  out  upon  the  pavement.  It 
assumed  the  form  of  a  little  crowd  of  men  hus- 
tling and  rushing  round  some  central  figures. 
There  were  shouts  of  "  Give  it  him !"  "Let  'im 
'ave  it!"  "No!"  "Shame!"  "Don't  hit  him  !" 
"Knock  him  down!"  "Damnation  French- 
man!" "  Dirty  foreigner !"  "  Call  the  police !" 
and  so  forth.  I  could  see  that  the  fat,  bare- 
headed landlord,  and  the  almost  equally  fat 
bar-man,  were  wildly  endeavoring  to  restore  or- 
der, or  keep  the  whole  company  out,  while  the 
bar-maid  stood  at  the  door  and  vainly  screamed 
for  the  "Perlice!" 

I  do  not  feel  much  interest  in  "rows,"  and 
would  gladly  have  passed  on,  but  the  "row" 
broke  around  me,  so  to  speak,  split  into  waves 
upon  the  sudden  and  unexpected  opposition  of 
my  advancing  form,  and  I  found  myself  some- 
how in  the  very  midst  of  it.  Then  I  saw  that 
the  central  figures  were  a  big,  stout,  lubberly- 
looking  cavalry  soldier,  and  a  small  man,  who 
was  clinging  to  the  hero's  neck.  In  the  latter 
figure  I  at  once  recognized  my  fantastic  friend 
of  the  black  wig.  He  was  jabbering  away  in  a 
jargon  of  French  and  broken  English,  and  was 
clinging  to  his  antagonist  like  a  savage  little 
bull-dog.  Just  as  I  was  rushing  in  to  endeavor 
to  get  him  away  the  big  soldier  succeeded  in 
shaking  himself  free  from  my  friend's  grip,  and 
then  took  the  little  man  bodily  oft'  his  feet,  and 
flung  him  on  the  pavement,  amidst  a  yelling 
chorus  of  cheers  and  laughter,  broken  by  a  few 
cries  of  "Shame !" 

"For  shame,  you  cowardly  ruffian!"  I  ex- 
claimed, utterly  ignorant  as  I  was  of  the  merits 
of  the  quarrel.  "Don't  you  see  he  is  an  old 
man?  Fight  your  match,  you  blackguard,  if 
you  want  to  fight!" 

I  fully  expected  to  have  had  to  accept  a  prac- 
tical challenge  on  my  own  account,  and  stood 
therefore  quite  ready,  the  first  moment  the  sol- 
dier made  an  attack  on  me,  to  hit  hard  and 
home.  He  was  a  floundering,  awkward  sort 
of  fellow.  I  was  stoxit  and  sinewy  at  that  time, 
and  had  some  little  science.  I  did  not  despair 
of  finishing  off  the  battle  in  a  well -employed 
minute  or  so. 

But  to  do  the  honest  warrior  justice,  he 
seemed  rather  ashamed  of  his  part  in  the  trans- 
action. 

"Who  wants  to  fight  him?"  he  asked  in  a 
growling  tone,  and  with  a  sheepish  expression. 
"He  ain't  that  old  neither;  but  I  didn't  want 
to  have  any  thing  to  do  with  the  dirty  little 
Frenchy.  'Twas  all  his  work.  Why  didn't  he 
let  me  alone  ?  Why  did  he  keep  badgerin'  of 
me,  and  worryin'  of  me,  and  insultin'  of  me  and 
my  red  coat,  all  the  evening?" 


There  was  a  chorus  of  approbation,  and  the 
bar-man  cried,  "Hear,  hear!" 

Meanwhile  my  little  friend  jumped  to  his  feet 
again,  and  began  to  dance  around  us  on  the 
pavement  without  hat  or  wig,  presenting  so  out- 
rageously ridiculous  a  spectacle  that  I  could 
not  wonder  at  the  roar  of  laughter  with  which 
he  was  greeted.  I  kept  between  him  and  the 
soldier  as  well  as  I  could,  and  I  at  last  seized 
him  fast  round  the  arms,  while  he,  endeavoring 
to  break  away  and  get  at  his  antagonist,  dragged 
and  whirled  me  round  on  the  pavement  in  a 
manner  the  most  grotesque  arid  ludicrous. 

"Let  him  come!"  roared  the  absurd  little 
beast,  in  his  ridiculous  jabber.  "  Cochon  dun 
Anglais!  God  dam  John  Bull!  Poltroon  of 
militaire!  I  am  not  so  old,  moi,  but  I  can  teach 
ce  gros  militaire  his  own  boxe.  Coward  En- 
glish! English  dam!  Fight  you  all  round! 
Sacre-e-e-t!" 

The  absurdity  and  whimsicality  of  the  whole 
scene,  and  of  this  ridiculous  little  being's  non- 
sensical part  in  it,  were  altogether  too  much  for 
me,  and  I  too  joined  in  the  burst  of  laugh- 
ter. 

"Come,  come,"  I  said  at  last,  shaking  my 
old  friend  rather  roughly  by  the  collar,  "don't 
make  a  fool  of  yourself  any  more.  You  have 
had  enough  of  this  for  one  night.  Come  away 
with  me." 

"Will  ze  gros  militaire  make  apology?" 

A  renewed  burst  of  laughter  followed  this,  in 
which  the  gros  militaire  himself  joined. 

"Do  take  him  away,  like  a  good  gentleman," 
said  the  landlord  to  me.  "  I  do  think  he's  the 
most  worriting  little  creature  as  ever  I  saw. 
He's  been  insulting  every  one  in  my  bar  to- 
night. He  kissed  my  bar-maid,  and  he  wanted 
to  kiss  my  wife ;  and  he's  been  so  down  upon 
that  there  soldier  as  flesh  and  blood  wouldn't 
stand  it,  telling  him  the  English  soldiers  were 
all  cowards,  and  that  the  French  were  coming 
over  to  thrash  us  all  and  carry  off  our  wives, 
And  I  tried  to  get  rid  of  him  quietly,  and  he 
wouldn't  go,  and  I  tried  to  keep  order ;  but  you 
know  it's  hard  for  Englishmen  to  stand  being 
insulted  by  a  d — d  little  Frenchman ;  and  the 
soldier  didn't  hit  him  at  all,  but  only  wanted 
just  to  put  him  out  of  the  place." 

"Well,  take  all  these  people  in  again,  and 
I'll  get  him  out  of  this. — No,  you  sha'n't. "  This 
last  assurance  was  given  to  my  impetuous  friend, 
who  was  plunging  and  struggling  so  that  it  some- 
times took  all  the  vigor  of  my  eight-and-twenty 
years  to  keep  him  back,  and  indeed  I  sometimes 
felt  tempted  to  let  him  rush  on  and  get  smoth- 
ered or  set  upon  by  the  cavalryman.  The  crowd, 
however,  seeing  that  the  fun  was  probably  over, 
began  to  straggle  back,  laughing,  into  the  pub- 
lic house ;  the  bar-man  and  the  bar-maid  had 
returned  to  their  duties ;  the  soldier  was  only 
too  glad  to  get  out  of  the  whole  business ;  and 
I  was  nearly  master  of  the  situation. 

"Here's  his  hat,"  said  the  landlord. 

"And  here's  his  wig !"  exclaimed  a  by-stand- 
er,  with  a  burst  of  laughter. 


-IG 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


The  soldier  having  by  this  time  disappeare< 
behind  the  swing-doors  of  the  public  house,  hi 
antagonist  allowed  himself  to  be  quietly  coiffe 
and  having  shrugged  his  shoulders  several  times 
and  exclaimed  that  the  chasseur  acknowledgec 
himself  vaincu,  he  made  a  low  bow  to  the  fev 
remaining  spectators,  thanked  ces  braves  Anglai 
for  the  fair  play  of  the  boxe,  and,  leaning  on  my 
arm  affectionately,  consented  to  be  led  away 
The  disgust  I  felt  at  the  whole  business  ne 
words  can  express.  But  that  I  looked  at  hi 
withered  face,  and  saw  the  deepening  ruts  of 
Time's  track  so  plainly  in  it,  I  should  have  re 
gretted  that  I  had  not  left  the  soldier  and  him 
self  to  settle  the  business  between  them. 

When  we  had  got  a  few  paces  from  the  scene 
of  conflict  my  companion  burst  into  a  long  pea! 
of  rolling  laughter. 

"That  was  capital,"  he  chuckled.  "Did 
you  ever  see  such  fun  ?  I  suppose  I  may  drop 
the  Frenchman  now,  and  return  to  my  allegi- 
ance as  a  native-born  subject  of  happy  and 
glorious,  long  to  reign  over  us,  Victoria,  Queen 
of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland." 

"What  on  earth  led  you  to  carry  on  all  that 
absurd  buffoonery?" 

"If  I  know,  may  I  be  condemned  to  the 
eternal  society  of  British  respectability !     Give 
you  my  word,  my  dear  young  friend— whose 
name  I  have  not  yet  the  honor  of  knowing — I 
can  no  more  tell  you  why  I  chose  to  assume 
the  manners,  prejudices,  and  lingo  of  Albion's 
hereditary  enemy  than  I  could  solve  the  mys- 
tery of  man's  hereafter.    What  then  ?    We  are 
all  creatures  of  impulse.      I  have  been  espe- 
cially so  from  the  date  of  my  first  misfortune — 
of  course  I  mean  my  birth.     I  looked  into  that 
atrocious  den  there  with  no  object  whatever.    I 
might  have  come  harmlessly  away  in  five  min- 
utes, when  the  evil  destinies  would  have  it  that 
my  wandering  eyes  fell  upon  that  hapless  soldier. 
He  was  the  centre  of  an  admiring  bumpkin  or 
costermonger  group;   he  was  telling,  I  think, 
his  adventures — atrocious  lies,  of  course,  every 
one — in  China,  or  the  Khyber  Pass,  or  Syria, 
or  some  other  place ;  and  he  was  evidently  im- 
mensely proud  of  being  a  British  soldier.     May 
I  perish  if  I  could  resist  the  temptation  to  make 
him  and  the  rest  of  them  uncomfortable !    The 
one  thing  I  hate  in  life  is  smug  and  sleek  re- 
spectability and  self-conceit,  in  any  sphere  what- 
ever.    In  that  moment  I  became  a  Frenchman 
— positively  for  the  time  being  I  was  a  French- 
man.     I  soon  disturbed  the  harmony  of  the 
festive  hour.     I  confuted  my  red-coat  with  im- 
promptu facts  and  impossible  geography.    I  be- 
wildered him  so  far  that  before  long  he  couldn't 
have  told  whether  he  did  or  did  not  take  part  in 
the  battle  of  Plassy,  and  whether  Marshal  Ney 
did  not  lick  the  English  there.     I  contradicted 
and  chaffed  him,  every  word  he  said  ;  I  kissed 
the  bar-maid  because  he  seemed  spoony  abotit 
her;  I  winked  ostentatiously  at  the  landlord's 
wife,  until  mine  host  grew  purple  with  jealousy 
and  fear — I  really  believe  I  kissed  her  too ;  and 
finally — " 


"Finally,  they  kicked  you  out." 
"No,  they  didn't.  The  soldier  tried  to  put 
me  out  and  couldn't,  and  then  the  whole  of  them 
fell  on  me  somehow;  and  I  have  no  doubt  they 
would  all  have  wreaked  their  base  vengeance 
on  me  but  that  you  came  gallantly  up  to  the 
rescue.  I  owe  you  something  for  that.  •  So 
much  the  worse  for  you.  The  people  I  owe 
any  thing  to  are  seldom  any  the  better  for  it. 
Yet  I  like  you  ;  I  did  from  the  first.  You  look 
so  confoundedly  out  of  sorts." 
"  Thank  you." 

_  "Yes,  you  do.  I  hate  success  and  respecta- 
bility. I  hate  virtue,  and  domestic  happiness, 
and  the  proprieties,  and  all  that  revolting  stuff. 
I  detest  children  and  wives,  and  people  who 
parade  their  chubby,  insolent  happiness.  Stand 
there— just  there— in  the  moonlight  a  little,  and 
let  me  look  at  you." 

I  complied  with  his  wish.  He  planted  me 
as  a  painter  might  his  model,  fell  back  to  a 
proper  distance,  and  steadily  surveyed  me  with 
his  piercing,  glittering,  small  black  eyes. 

"Yes,  that  will  do,"  he  said,  reflectively. 

Nothing  about  you  to  offend  me.  You  don't 
seem  to  me  to  have  tasted  much  success  in  life, 
or  to  be  particularly  happy.  You,  I  should  say, 
are  at  odds  with  the  world,  and  likely  to  be  for 
a  time  at  least,  and  then,  perhaps,  you  may 
come  out  all  right ;  and  if  you  do,  I  don't  want 
:o  see  any  more  of  you  from  that  time  forth. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  Swift  and  his  sceva  indig- 
natio,  which  could  only  leave  him  with  his  life  ?" 
"  Yes,  I  have  heard  of  Swift,  and  know  all 
about  his  sceva  indignatio." 

"Well,  i  think  that's  my  curse.  I  writhe 
inder  it,  and  I  live  to  make  others  writhe. 
That  one  resemblance— you  need  not  tell  me  it 
s  the  only  one— I  bear  to  Jonathan  Swift. 
How  the  devil,  though,  do  you  know  it  is  the 
>nly  one  ?" 

"  I  didn't  say  I  knew  any  thing  about  it.  You 
may  be  twice  as  great  a  man  as  Swift  for  aught 
~  know  to  the  contrary." 

* '  Of  course  I  may — to  be  sure  I  may.  Then 
why  did  you  sneer  when  I  spoke  of  a  resem- 
"  dance  between  Swift  and  myself?" 

"I  didn't  sneer.     I  smiled  at  the  notion." 

"  Don't  smile  any  more  until  you  know  what , 
-ou  are  smiling  at.     However,  I  don't  mind* 
>eing  frank  and  humble  for  once,  and  confess- 
ng  that  in  the  matter  of  genius  I  am  decidedly 
nferior  to  Swift.    Also  that  the  world  has  neveV 
ecognized  me  as  it  did  him.     But  one  thing  is 
ertain:  Swift  never  locked  up  in  his  heart  a 
reater  treasure  of  hate  than  I  do.     How  old 
re  you?" 

"  Twenty-eight,  I  think,  or  thereabouts." 

"  Don't  you  find  the  world  a  devilish  place  ?" 

"How  devilish?" 

"Full  of  devils.      Here,  there,  and  every 
here— •  devils  all  around  us.     If  I  were  in- 
ined  to  be  an  atheist — which,  thank  God,  I 
ever,  never  was — I  should  be  forced  to  believe 
in  God  because  I  see  so  much  of  the  devil. 
Don't  you  think  with  me  ?" 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


47 


"  Oh  yes,  quite  so ;  no  doubt.  In  fact,  I  am' 
rather  in  a  hurry  now,  and  can't  stay  to  discuss 
theology." 

"Another  sneer!  This  time  an  inexcusable 
one,  for  it  is  a  sneer  against  religion.  Young 
man,  whatever  you  do,  be  religious  always." 

I  was  turning  away,  utterly  disgusted  at  the 
hideous  profanation  of  his  language.  He  saw 
disgust  painted  on  my  features,  and  he  seized 
me  by  the  arm  : 

"Stay;  don't  go  yet.  Don't — you  sha'n't. 
You  think  me  a  hypocrite  ?" 

"  I  do ;  and  I  am  sickened  by  such  talk.  Let 
me  go,  and  good-night." 

"No;  just  listen  to  me.  I  am  not  a  hypo- 
crite ;  no,  by  God !  He  hears  me,  and  He 
knows !  If  I  had  been,  I  must  have  succeeded 
in  life,  and  been  respectable,  and  had  carriages 
and  fine  horses,  and  sat  in  Parliament  as  Tom- 
my Goodboy.  But  I  could  not;  I  would  go 
my  own  way — to  the  devil  if  need  be — and  yet 
loving  religion  all  the  time.  What  else  is  my 
hope  and  my  consolation?  Do  I  not  read  in 
th£  Psalms  of  David  how  he  curses  his  enemies  ? 
— and  these  words  teach  me  how  to  curse  mine. 
Do  I  not  read  how  Dives  at  last  went  down  to 
hell—" 

"For  shame,  for  shame!  You  are  growing 
old,  and  should  read  the  Holy  Scriptures  to  some 
other  purpose,  or  not  at  all.  Let  us  say  no  more 
of  it — and  good-night." 

"Good-night,  then — and  go  to  the  devil.  I 
say,  shall  we  meet  in  London  ?" 

'"I  hope  not." 

"Then  I  hope  we  shall — and  I  am  sure  we 
shall ;  I  see  it  in  the  future  that  we  are  to  be 
thrown  together  a  good  deal  somehow." 

Confound  it !  This  very  thought  was  at  the 
moment  pressing  painfully  on  my  own  mind. 
Just  as  I  still  kept  thinking  his  face  not  unfa- 
miliar to  me,  and  wondering  where  I  could  have 
seen  one  like  it  before,  so  I  began  now  to  be 
weighed  down  with  a  hideous  foreboding  that 
this  creature  and  I  were  likely  to  be  brought  to- 
gether in  some  close  and  disagreeable  way  here- 
after. The  very  nourishing  of  this  thought  drew 
with  it  a  hesitation  which  unconsciously  checked 
my  abrupt  breaking  away  from  my  companion. 
Involuntarily,  irresistibly,  I  once  more  set  myself 
to  scan  and  study  his  features,  in  the  vague  hope 
of  reading  there  some  clew  to  my  forebodings. 

"I  see  you  don't  like  the  prospect,"  he  re- 
marked, with  a  chuckle;  "but  you  need  not 
much  fear :  you  have  no  money,  I  know.  Lucky 
for  you,  for  I  must  get  money  somehow ;  and  I 
am  such  a  hand  at  billiards  and  cards !  But  I 
can't  wait  for  these  slow  and  steady  acquisitions 
when  I  get  to  London.  I  must  have  something 
to  open  the  campaign  with.  Gare  to  Goodboy ! 
Good-by  to  you  for  the  present ;  we'll  meet  again. 
Just  now  take  your  face  hence.  Thanks  for  de- 
fending me  so  valiantly.  Next  time  that,  in  the 
capacity  of  a  discharged  caporal,  I  am  engaged 
in  vindicating  the  honor  of  France  against  some 
gigantic  beef-eating  Briton,  I'll  endeavor  to  have 
you  close  at  hand." 


At  last  he  went  away ;  and  I  could  hear  him 
trolling  Partant  pour  la  Syrie  in  a  wonderfully 
sweet  and  mellow  voice  as  he  disappeared  from 
my  sight. 

Much  relieved  by  our  separation,  I  went 
briskly  home ;  sincerely,  though  somehow  not 
very  hopefully,  praying  that  London  might 
prove  kind  enough  to  hold  us  two  without 
bringing  us  together. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

GREETING  AND — FAREWELL. 

THE  season  was  fading  when  I  returned  to 
London.  Even  in  our  dull  and  barbarous  dis- 
trict people  were  beginning  to  make  ghastly 
affectation  of  going  out  of  town ;  while  in  the 
streets  which  society  and  civilization  claimed 
for  their  own  the  windows  were  darkening  one 
after  another,  much  as  the  colored  lamps  of  an 
old-fashioned  illumination,  before  the  universal 
reign  of  gas  had  set  in,  used  to  fade  and  die  to- 
ward morning. 

Lilla  had  a  rapid  summary  of  news  for  me. 
"Nothing  much"  had  occurred,  as  she  phrased 
it ;  her  uncle  had  not  yet  left  town ;  he  had 
had  a  quarrel  with  his  daughters,  and  she  had 
an  idea  that  it  was  all  about  the  Opera  and 
Mademoiselle  Reichstein.  Oh,  hadn't  I  heard  ? 
Mademoiselle  Reichstein  had  made  such  a  suc- 
cess !  Oh  yes — splendid !  But  she  had  broken 
off  her  engagement  rather  suddenly,  and  she 
wanted  to  go  to  the  other  opera-house,  and  there 
was  quite  a  turmoil  about  it;  and  Lilla  be- 
lieved there  was  going  to  be  a  lawsuit.  But, 
however  that  might  be,  Mr.  Lyndon  was  quite 
infatuated  about  her ;  and  people  would  keep 
saying  that  he  wanted  to  marry  her ;  and  his 
daughters  were  in  such  a  way  about  it,  and 
there  was  a  row  in  the  building,  Lilla  believed. 
She  'was  quite  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  a 
"row"  continuing  and  growing  to  be  some- 
thing serious,  for  she  utterly  detested  Mr.  Lyn- 
don's daughters ;  and  she  was  going  to  be  in- 
troduced to  Mademoiselle  Reichstein. 

"But  if  your  uncle  marries,  Lilla,  that  will 
be  rather  a  bad  thing  for  you  ?" 

"Yes;  but  I  don't  believe  it  will  come  to 
any  thing.  I  should  think  a  woman  so  young, 
and  with  such  a  career  before  her,  isn't  going 
to  marry  a  man  who  has  daughters  quite  as  old 
as  herself  and  once  and  a  half  as  tall.  If  I 
were  she,  I  knoAV  that  nothing  on  earth  should 
induce  me  to  do  such  a  thing.  Oh,  how  I 
envy  her!  How  happy  some  people  are! 
What  success  they  have,  and  gifts,  and  beau- 
ty !  And  what  a  miserable  life  a  girl  like  me 
is  doomed  to  lead !  Here  in  this  wretched  old 
den !  I  wonder  how  one  can  live  through  it. 
I  never  cross  the  bridge  but  I  think  how  sad 
and  dreary  my  life  is,  and  how  much  I  should 
like  to  drown  myself  if  I  had  the  courage.  She 
must  be  as  happy  as  a  queen.  I  envy  her,  and 
I  admire  her  too." 


48 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


"Have  you  seen  her?" 
"No;  her  portrait  only ;  and  it  was  a  wretch- 
ed portrait  too — a  thing  in  a  music-shop,  with 
some  rubbishy  piece  of  music  appended :  but  it 
made  her  beautiful  and  queenly,  and  sad  too, 
I  thought.  But  I  am  to  see  her.  Is  it  possi- 
ble you  did  not  hear  of  her  success  down  in  the 
country  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course  I  did.  But  I  am  tired 
of  all  the  singers  who  are  every  one  in  turn  to 
surpass  Jenny  Lind  and  Grisi,  and  who  disap- 
pear in  a  season." 

"But  the  town  is  ringing  with  her." 
"Yes,  so  it  was  with  Mademoiselle  Johanna 
Wagner;    so  it  was  with  no  end  of  women. 
Where  are  they  all  now  ?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know ;  but  I  have  quite  made 
up  my  mind  that  this  one  shall  succeed  and 
have  a  splendid  career,  and  come  to  know  me 
and  be  very  fond  of  me,  and  take  me  behind 
the  scenes,  and  have  me  in  her  box ;  and  please 
don't  destroy  my  delicious  dream.     I  have  not 
many  pleasant  dreams  here,  I  can  tell  you.     I 
never  saw  success  in  a  living  form  face  to  face 
before ;  and  pray  don't  convince  me  that  I  am 
not  really  to  see  it  now.     If  you  have  come 
back  cynical  and  out  of  humor,  pray  go  away 
again  on  your  travels ;  although  we  were  pre- 
cious lonely  without  you,  I  can  tell  you  that. " 
"  Were  you  lonely  without  me  ?" 
"  Oh  yes,  very.     Mamma  thought  you  would 
never  come  back." 
"And  you,  Lilla?" 
"Yes  ;  I  too  was  very  lonely." 
"And  you  were  glad  when  I  came  back  ?" 
"Glad?     Yes,  surely.     You  don't  suppose 
I  was  not  glad  ?" 

The  frank  look  of  kindly  affectionate  surprise 
with  which  Lilla  spoke  these  words  had  a  warm- 
ing, almost  a  thrilling  influence  on  me.  I  think 
I  had  begun  of  late  to  form  a  kind  of  vague  idea 
that  Lilla  might  easily  be  induced  to  fall  in  love 
with  me.  I  certainly  did  not  love  her,  and  I 
saw  nothing  in  her  manner  toward  me  which 
spoke  of  love.  But  we  were  so  much  thrown 
together,  we  were  both  so  lonely,  that  I  some- 
times began  to  ask  myself  whether  it  would  not 
be  possible  for  me  to  descend  from  my  pinnacle 
of  sublime  isolation  and  despair,  and  lift  her  to- 
ward my  heart.  I  look  back  now  upon  myself 
and  my  ways  at  that  time  with  the  feeling  which 
I  suppose  most  people  entertain  toward  their 
youth,  curiously  blended  of  regret  and  admira- 
tion and  contempt.  What  a  vain  creature  I 
was,  and  yet  how  stupidly  timid  and  diffident ! 
What  a  fool  I  was,  and  how  convinced  of  my 
own  wisdom !  How  miserable  I  was,  and  how 
happy !  What  an  admiration  I  had  for  my  own 
merits,  and  yet  what  a  rapturous  and  servile 
gratitude  I  felt  to  any  woman  who  seemed  to 
cast  a  favoring  eye  upon  me !  I  kept  thinking 
complacently  whether  I  really  could  accept  Lil- 
la's  love,  without  asking  myself  whether  any 
consideration  on  earth  could  induce  her  to  ac- 
cept me  as  a  lover ;  and  yet  all  the  time  I  was 
filled  with  a  sense  of  humiliating  gratefulness 


to  the  girl  for  having  condescended  to  be 
friendly  and  kindly  to  me.  Of  course  I  thought 
to  myself,  if  I  could  make  up  my  mind  to  come 
down  from  my  clouds  and  try  to  love  her,  I 
must  tell  her  openly,  tragically,  that  I  was'  a 
blighted  being,  that  I  had  hardly  any  heart  left 
to  give,  and  so  forth.  Even  then  I  had  a  faint 
doubt  whether  this  would  not  be  a  little  too 
much  in  the  style  of  Dickens's  Mr.  Moddle, 
with  whom  I  knew  Lilla  to  be  well  acquainted  ; 
and  what  a  pretty  thing  it  would  be  if  she  were 
only  to  burst  out  laughing  at  my  lachrymose 
avowal ! 

Yet  the  moment  was  tempting ;  the  situation 
became  critical.  Lilla  had  her  levities  and  her 
faults,  that  was  plain  enough;  only  a  lover's 
eye  could  be  blind  to  them,  and  I  was  not  a 
lover.  But  they  could  surely  be  ameliorated, 
eradicated  gently  by  patience  and  superior  wis- 
dom— mine,  par  exemple.  Who  did  not  once 
believe  himself  capable  of  reforming  any  one 
on  whom  he  chose  to  try  his  hand  ?  I  am  slow 
to  believe  in  my  own  or  any  body  else's  reform- 
ing capabilities  now;  but  I  suppose  I  then 
thought  that,  if  I  but  condescended  to  attempt 
the  task,  I  could  remove  all  the  weaknesses  and 
defects  from  poor  Lilla's  nature,  and  replace 
them  by  some  splendid  grafts  of  earnestness 
and  lofty  purpose. 

However  this  may  be,  Lilla's  friendly  admis- 
sion that  she  was  lonely  in  my  absence  had  sent 
a  strange,  sweet  vibration  through  me.  When 
this  conversation  occurred  we  were  crossing  St. 
James's  Park.  Thus  far  our  roads  lay  togeth- 
er, and  when  there  was  a  possibility  of  such 
companionship,  we  always  took  advantage  of 
it.  It  was  a  beautiful  evening,  and  the  light  of 
the  setting  sun  threw  a  poetical  glory  over  even 
the  arid  gravel  and  stunted  trees  of  the  park.  It 
was  a  dangerous  time  and  hour  to  walk  with  a 
pretty  woman,  and  hear  her  tell  you  that  she 
had  been  lonely  in  your  absence. 

I  glanced  at  Lilla.  Her  eyes  were  downcast 
— only,  I  now  believe,  because  the  level  rays  of 
the  evening  sun  threatened  them — and  there 
was  a  faint  crimson  on  her  cheeks.  She  was 
silent.  I  felt  my  soul  dissolving  in  senti- 
ment. 

"  Then  you  were  really  glad  of  my  return, 
Lilla,  and  you  thought  of  me  in  my  absence  ?" 

She  looked  up  quickly,  smilingly,  perhaps 
just  a  little  surprised. 

"  Thought  of  you  ?  Oh  yes,  always !  How 
could  I  help  thinking  of  you  ?'' 

What  I  might  have  poured  out  in  another 
second  I  am  glad  to  say  that  I  can  never  know. 
It  would  undoubtedly  have  been  some  idiotcy 
to  be  bitterly  regretted  by  myself  afterward ; 
and,  as  I  now  know,  not  likely  to  have  caused 
icr  any  particular  delight  then,  even  if  she  had 
not  laughed  at  it.  But  she  suddenly  stopped  > 
in  her  sentence,  and  caught  me  by  the  arm,  and 
a  carriage  drove  past  us  from  behind.  Two 
ladies  were  in  it,  and  a  gentleman  whose  iron- 
gray  hair  and  purpling  complexion  I  knew  at  a 
;lance.  I  only  saw  the  bonnets  of  the  ladies. 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


Lilla  bowed  to  her  uncle,  and  I  saw  her  cheek 
redden. 

<l  It's  my  uncle, "  she  said ;  ' '  and  I  know — I 
am  sure — one  of  the  ladies  with  him  is  Mdlle. 
Keichstein.  I  didn't  even  get  a  glimpse  of  her, 
did  you  ?" 

"  No ;  I  only  saw  bonnets." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  seen  her !  I  am  sure  it's 
she  ;  I  am  so  sorry !  And  he  saw  us.  I  don't 
care  a  bit ;  in  fact,  I  am  delighted,  because  now 
it  will  remind  him  of  you  ;  and  I  didn't  like  to 
speak  too  much  about  you,  or  too  often,  be- 
cause— M 

And  Lilla  really  blushed  for  the  second  time 
that  day. 

But  the  blushing  was  useless  now :  the  spell 
was  broken ;  my  sublime  self-devotion  vanished. 
Lilla's  voice,  and  her  evident  first  sensation  of 
something  like  doubt  or  shame  at  being  seen 
in  my  companionship,  and  her  raptures  about 
Mdlle.  Keichstein,  were  enough.  How  full  of 
kindness  for  me  her  whole  heart  was  I  could  not 
but  see  ;  and  I  loved  her  in  one  way  for  that  and 
other  things ;  but  the  glamour  of  the  moment  was 
gone,  and  I  left  her  when  our  ways  divided  at 
Pall  Mall  a  free  man,  still  faithful  to  my  one 
memory  and  one  love. 

Two  or  three  days  passed  away  before  an 
evening  and  an  event  came  which  I  can  never 
forget.  I  had  been  in  town  all  day,  and  came 
home  rather  tired  just  after  the  last  rays  of  a 
stormy  sunset  had  sunk  below  the  horizon  of 
the  low-lying  region  where  we  lived.  My  room, 
as  I  entered  it,  was  in  dusk  ;  but  I  could  see  as 
I  came  in  a  letter  for  me  standing  on  the  chim- 
ney-piece. I  went  over  apathetically  and  took 
it  in  my  hand  ;  biit  the  sight  of  the  inscription 
sent  a  fierce  shock  through  me,  and  my  head 
throbbed  with  a  wild  pain,  born  of  surprise  and 
sudden  emotion.  I  knew  that  writing  well.  I 
put  the  letter  down  for  a  moment,  just  that  my 
heart  might  beat  less  wildly,  and  my  nerves  be- 
come steady.  Then  I  opened  it  and  read : 

"  EMANUEL, — I  have  seen  you  again,  and  you 
Xlid  not  know  it.  I  was  near  you.  After  so 
many  years,  it  was  strange.  I  am  glad  we  did 
not  meet  to  speak.  I  only  write  this  word  to 
wish  you  may  be  happy  always.  Nothing  is 
left  but — greeting,  and  farewell. 

"CHRISTINA." 

I  put  the  letter  down  and  leaned  upon  the 
chimney-piece.  I  was  for  a  while  incapable  of 
thinking.  I  was  literally  stricken  to  the  heart. 
We  had  been  close  to  each  other,  and  I  had  not 
seen  her !  If  the  foolery  of  our  modern  days 
could  have  truth  behind  it,  and  a  living  man. 
could  really,  by  help  of  some  spiritualistic  in- 
cantation, be  reached  by  the  voice  and  affected 
by  the  presence  of  some  loved  being  from  an- 
other world,  he  might  feel  somewhat  as  I  felt 
then,  but  without  my  bitterness.  No  voice 
reaching  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  world  that 
lies  outside  nature  could  have  affected  me  with 
a  more  agonizing  sense  of  unavailable  nearness 
and  hopeless  distance.  Near  to  me — close  to 


me — her  very  writing  lying  on  my  table — and 
no  clew  or  trace  by  which  a  word  of  mine  might 
reach  her!  If  I  could  but  see  her  once — but 
speak  half  a  dozen  words — but  tell  her  of  my 
strong  love !  Was  it  not  cruel  thus  to  torture 
me  with  such  a  message  ?  Why  not  leave  me 
to  my  lonely  struggle  ?  I  was  comparatively 
happy ;  I  was  almost  contented ;  I  had  not  for- 
gotten her,  but  she  had  become  to  me  as  the 
dead  are,  and  I  had  no  hope.  Bitterly  did  I 
now  recall  my  first  knowledge  of  her  departure, 
my  first  sense  of  her  loss,  my  first  agony  of  un- 
certainty and  torment.  Now  all  woke  up  again 
with  keener  pain,  with  a  deeper  sense  of  tanta- 
lized and  thwarted  love. 

Perhaps  she  too,  like  myself,  is  unhappy,  is 
struggling  alone,  and  has  sent  out  these  few 
words  for  the  poor  sake  of  reaching  a  friendly 
ear  by  some  means,  as  parting  voyagers  call  a 
greeting  to  distant  friends  upon  the  fading 
shore,  although  no  answer  can  reach  them. 
Are  we  both,  then,  struggling  unaided  in  this 
vast  London  ?  Has  one  city  held  us  all  these 
years,  and  I  never  knew  it?  Is  she  poor,  like 
me,  and  hopeless?  Or  is  she  married  and 
happy,  and  having  seen  me  at  last  by  chance, 
did  she  but  look  up  for  a  moment  and  think  of 
the  boy  whom  years  ago  she  loved,  and,  im- 
pelled by  meaningless  impulse,  send  him  a  word 
of  greeting  and  farewell  ?  Have  I  lost  her  ut- 
terly and  forever,  or  will  some  other  message, 
more  distinct  than  this,  reach  me  yet,  and  gui'de 
me  to  her? 

This  thought  for  a  while  lighted  up  a  hope, 
a  sickly,  flickering  hope,  within  me.  Perhaps, 
as  she  lives,  is  near  me,  has  seen  me,  has  sent 
me  a  message,  her  mere  words  do  not  mean 
what  she  feels,  and  I  shall  hear  from  her  soon 
again,  and  we  shall  meet.  I  was  somewhat 
weak  of  late  from  over-exertion.  I  think  I 
must  have  been  weak  indeed,  in  mind  as  well 
as  in  body,  when  such  a  hope  could  inspire  me 
for  a  moment.  Well  I  knew  that  even  when 
Christina  loved  me  most,  she  loved  success  yet 
more;  and  what  temptation  could  my  future 
offer  to  such  a  spirit  ?  I  looked  from  the  win- 
dow, and  the  drear  evening  gloom  made  the 
flat  and  swampy  places  around,  the  mouldering 
houses,  the  blighted  trees,  look  grayer  and 
ghostlier  than  ever.  Heavy  rain  was  now  be- 
ginning to  fall,  and  the  sky  was  all  cloud  and 
gloom.  Nothing  on  earth  could  look  more 
dreary  to  me  than  the  prospect  out  of  doors, 
except,  indeed,  the  personal  prospect  which  my 
soul  foreshadowed.  Sad  and  heavy,  like  that 
mournful  scene  below — brightened  by  no  ray  of 
light,  cheered  by  no  pleasant  sound — all  dim, 
and  misty,  and  gray.  If  I  could  find  Christina, 
should  I  offer  her  a  share  of  this  one  room,  look- 
ing out  on  that  swamp,  and  get  her  to  canvass 
for  pupils,  who  might  learn  music  from  her  at 
sixpence  a  lesson,  among  the  dirty  children 
and  the  unfinished  streets  all  round  ?  I  pic- 
tured her,  as  I  saw  so  many  women  in  the 
neighborhood,  struggling  for  mere  life,  with 
children  crying  round  her  and  cramping  her 


50 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


very  efforts  to  get  them  bread,  that  they  migh 
eat  of  it  and  live.  Why,  there  is  a  peculi 
expression  graven  on  the  faces  of  a  certain  clas 
of  women  in  London,  which  cuts  the  very  hear 
to  look  at.  And  why  should  I  expect  any  bet 
ter  fortune  for  a  woman  doomed  to  be  wif< 
of  mine  ?  London  garrets  swarm  with  men  in 
finitely  better  and  more  worthy  of  success  than 
I,  and  yet  on  whom  no  gleam  of  fortune  eve 
falls. 

Once,  it  is  true,  I  had  more  courage  and  more 
hope.  But  London  struggle  has  something  in 
it  demoralizing.  No  contrast  in  life  can  be 
more  chilling  and  crushing  than  that  of  idea 
London  with  actual  London  in  such  a  case  ai 
mine.  To  ideal  London  we  look  in  our  ardoi 
as  the  youth  does  to  the  battle,  which  he  pic- 
tures as  all  thrilling  with  the  generous  glory  of 
strife,  the  rush  of  the  exhilarating  charge,  the 
clangor  of  the  bugle,  the  roar  of  the  cannon 
the  cheers  of  the  victor,  the  honor  and  the 
wreath,  or  the  noble,  soldier  -  like,  dramatic 
death.  Actual  London  is  the  slow,  cold  camp- 
ing on  the  wet  earth,  the  swamp,  malaria,  the 
ignoble  hunger  and  thirst,  the  dull  lying  in  the 
trenches,  the  mean  physical  exhaustion,  the  un- 
recognized, unrecorded  disappearance.  What 
has  become  of  the  poor,  raw,  boyish  recruit  who 
sank  exhausted  in  the  mud  of  the  night-march, 
or  was  trampled  to  death  in  the  retreat,  or  came 
back  with  a  broken  constitution  from  the  hos- 
pital, to  drag  out  a  few  obscure  and  miserable 
years  at  home  ?  I  seemed  to  myself  to  be  like 
the  most  ignoble  and  the  most  unhappy  of  them. 
Should  I  wish  Christina  to  share  such  fortunes 
— to  become  entangled  in  such  a  career  ? 

Or  if  she  were  prosperous,  could  I  beg  of  her 
prosperity,  and  be  warmed  meekly  in  the  sun 
of  her  success  ? 

This  last  idea  was  so  hateful  to  me  that  I 
strode  passionately  up  and  down  the  room  to 
banish  it,  and  felt  inclined  to  invoke  curses  on 
myself  for  the  meanness  which  even  allowed  it 
to  have  an  instant's  possession  of  my  mind. 

Ah,  no !  She  is  lost,  lost  forever !  Whether 
she  lives  in  light  or  in  gloom,  she  is  lost  alike  to 
me !  I  could  not  brighten  the  gloom.  I  will 
never  stoop  to  be  illumined — a  pitiful,  poor, 
human  planet— by  the  light.  I  take  her  fare- 
well literally— and  farewell ! 

A  tap  at  the  door  broke  in  upon  my  lonely 
thoughts.  The  disturbance  was  grateful  to  me ; 
any  intruder  would  have  been  welcome  at  such 
a  time.  It  was  not  an  intruder,  however,  who 
sought  to  be  admitted,  but  Lilla  Lyndon.  Her 
looks  showed  her  to  be  brimful  of  some  intelli- 
gence. She  was  dressed  as  if  she  had  only  just 
come  in,  and  her  cheeks  and  curls  were  spark- 
ling with  rain-drops. 

"  Do  you  know  where  I  have  been  ?"  she  be- 
gan.     "But  you  need  not  try  to  guess,  for  you 
never  could  succeed.     I  have  been  to  see  Ma- 
demoiselle Keichstein  with  my  uncle." 
"  Indeed  !     Do  you  like  her  ?" 
"Yes,  immensely.    She  is  delightful,  I  think, 
and  so  good,  and  very  handsome.     You  don't 


seem  at  all  interested  in  her.  Wait  a  bit.  I 
have  something  to  tell  you  which  will  interest 
you,  cold-hearted  philosopher  as  you  are.  But 
stop — are  you  not  well  ?" 

"Yes,  Lilla,  quite  well." 

"You  don't  look  like  it,  then.  I'll  send 
mamma  to  talk  to  you  presently.  Perhaps  I 
have  something  to  tell  you  which  will  help  you 
to  get  better." 

"I  am  not  ill,  indeed,  Lilla." 

"Well,  let  me  get  on  with  my  news.  My 
uncle  came  with  me ;  but  after  a  while  he  left 
me  with  Mademoiselle  Reichstein,  and  I  re- 
mained for  more  than  an  hour,"  and  she  sang 
to  me  delightfully;  and  she  was  so  kind  and 
good,  and  seemed  to  take  such  an  interest  in' 
me,  you  can't  think ;  only  I  put  it  down  in  my 
own  mind  to  the  account  of  the  interest  she 
takes  in  my  revered  uncle,  who,  if  he's  not  very 
young,  at  least  has  plenty  of  money.  However, 
she  took  such  an  interest  in  me  that,  when  we 
were  alone,  I  came  to  the  point  which  I  had  at 
heart  all  through  —  and  I  spoke  to  her  about 
you.  Ah !  now  you  begin  at  last  to  think  it 
worth  while  listening  to  what  I  say." 

Yes,  I  must  own  that  even  while  she  spoke  a 
strange  boding  thrill  passed  through  me,  and  I 
held  my  breath  in  a  kind  of  agony. 

"I  can  tell  you  I  spoke  highly  of  you,  and 
told  her  how  fond  mamma  was  of  you,  and  I 
too.  I  do  wonder  what  you  would  have  thought 
if  you  only  knew  what  I  allowed  her  to  think  in 
order  to  persuade  her  to  take  an  interest  in  you. " 

"  What  did  you  allow  her  to  think  ?" 

"I  declare  you  are  quite  hoarse,  Emanuel. 
You  are  in  for  a  bad  cold." 

"No,  no,  Lilla ;  do  pray  go  on." 

"  AVell,  I  had  rather  you  guessed  at  my  pious 
fraud.     I  didn't  exactly  say  the  false  word,  but 
I  am  afraid  I  gave  it  out  somehow.     She  asked 
rje  a  question  about  you,  and  about  my  interest 
n  you,  and  I  allowed  her  to  think— oh,  there, 
I  am  quite  ashamed  of  myself ;  and  I  suppose  a 
girl  better  brought  up  than  I  would  not  have 
done  such  a  thing  for  all  the  world.    But  I  have . 
not  been  brought  up  well,  and  I  never  could 
stick  at  trifles  to  serve  a  friend — and,  in  fact, 
VTr.  Temple,  I  think  I  alloAved  Mademoiselle 
ieichstein  to  believe  that  you  and  I  were  en- 
gaged, and  only  waited  to  be  married  until  you 
had  made  your  way  a  little.     There's  the  whole 
ruth  out ;  and  all  I  can  say  in  my  own  defense 
s,  that  if  I  had  not  as  much  esteem  for  you 
and  confidence  in  you,  Emanuel  Temple,  as  if 
ou  were  my  own  brother,  I  would  never,  never,    » 
>ad  as  I  am,  have  been  guilty  of  any  thing  so 
mblushing  and  unwomanly.     There  now,  how 
Ireadfully  miserable  you  look !     I  really  don't 
ee  that  you  need  be  so  utterly  humiliated  and 
shamed — I  dare  say  Mademoiselle  Reichstein 
id  not  think  any  the  worse  of  you,  whatever 
he  may  have  thought  of  me." 

I  was  hardly  conscious  of  any  meaning  in 
hese  latest  words  of  hers.  I  was  not  think- 
ng  of  humiliation,  or  of  what  she  had  said  on 
my  behalf.  One  thought,  one  conjecture,  was 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


51 


swelling  up  within  me  SQ  as  to  flood  and  drown 
every  other  feeling. 

"I  feel  greatly  obliged  to  you,  Lilla,  greatly 
obliged,"  was  all  I  could  say. 

"And  you  look  it  too." 

"But  Mademoiselle  Keichstein?" 

"Well,  Mademoiselle  Reichstein  was  most 
kind  and  amiable.  She  sat  quite  silent  and 
thoughtful  for  a  while,  perhaps  considering  how 
best  she  could  lend  a  helping  hand.  It  must  be 
a  far  more  difficult  matter  than  I  thought,  for 
she  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  and  remained 
thinking  quite  a  time.  Then  she  kissed  me,  and 
wished  me  all  happiness.  I  felt  like  a  shame- 
faced and  convicted  liar.  Yes,  sHe  wished  hap- 
piness to  me — to  me,  the  most  unhappy,  discon- 
tented, lonely,  hopeless  creature  under  the  sun ! 
—and  then  she  sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter  to 
Princeps — the  great  Princeps  himself,  the  man- 
ager of  the  Italian  Opera — and  I  saw  that  she 
tore  up  two  or  three  copies  before  she  was  satis- 
fied with  the  writing  (I  believe  half  these  prima 
donnas  can't  spell)  ;  and  then  she  read  it  to  me. 
It  was  all  about  you,  and  making  it  a  personal 
favor  to  help  you — very  strongly  put,  I  can  tell 
you.  I  offered  to  post  it  as  I  came  along,  in 
order  to  be  quite  sure  that  it  went ;  for  she  said 
Princeps  was  not  in  London  now,  and  it  would 
be  impossible  for  you  to  see  him  for  some  weeks ; 
and  she  asked  me — but  this  I  really  ought  not 
to  tell  you." 

"Tell  me  all,  Lilla— all,  alll" 

"  Good  gracious,  how  hoarse  you  are  !  Well, 
she  is  so  kind  and  thoughtful  that  she  begged 
me  not  to  tell  you  any  thing  about  the  whole 
affair.  People  don't  always  like,  she  said,  to 
think  that  they  are  being  helped  along,  and  it 
would  be  better  if  you  supposed  that  you  were 
being  sought  out — for  you  will  be  sought  out — 
for  your  own  merit  only.  Was  not  that  con- 
siderate and  delicate  ?  But  I  know  you  have 
no  such  nonsense  about  you,  and  I  want  you  to 
know  how  kind  she  is,  and  so  I  have  told  you, 
though  I  promised  I  wouldn't — the  second  fib 
to-day  on  your  account,  Mr.  Emanuel  Temple. 
Oh,  that  reminds  me  that  I  must  have  let  drop 
your  full  name  somehow,  for  she  seemed  quite 
to  know  it." 

Oh,  God  in  heaven !  I  stood  up  and  clenched 
my  hands. 

"  And  now  I  think  that's  all ;  except  that  she 
gave  me  her  picture,  and  I  think  her  so  beauti- 
ful !  Oh,  how  I  do  wish  she  would  marry  my 
uncle !  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?" 

"  Show  me  the  picture,  Lilla." 

She  Sought  in  her  pocket,  then  in  the  bosom 
of  her  dress.  I  stood  trembling  with  excite- 
ment, keen  pains  again  darting  through  my 
forehead,  the  square  of  light  made  by  the  win- 
dow rising  and  falling  before  my  eyes. 

"  Surely  I  can't  have  lost  it  ?  No,  here  it 
is.  Is  she  not  beautiful  ?  Such  a  mass  of 
hair,  and  all  her  own  too." 

I  took  the  picture  from  her.  It  was  one  of 
the  old-fashioned  daguerreotypes,  now  as  com- 
pletely gone  out  of  the  world  as  Miss  La  Creevy's 


]  enameled  miniatures.  When  I  first  seized  it 
and  gazed  upon  it  the  light  so  fell  as  to  blot  it 
out  completely,  and  my  impatient  eyes  only 
looked  upon  a  blank  space.  Forcing  down 
my  emotions,  I  brought  it  to  the  window,  held 
it  in  the  proper  light,  and  then — 

"  Lilly,  my  dear ;  Lilly,  my  own,"  broke  in, 
thank  Heaven!  the  plaintive  tones  of  Mrs. 
Lyndon. 

"  Yes,  mamma ;  what's  up  ?" 

"My  child,  you  mustn't  stay  in  your  wet 
things.  Come  down,  dear ;  I  want  you." 

"  Oh,  what  does  it  matter !  Yes,  I  am  com- 
ing. Keep  the  picture  for  the  present,  Eman- 
uel, and  fall  in  love  with  it  if  you  can.  I 
would,  I  know,  if  I  were  a  man.  I'll  send 
up  for  it  presently." 

Thank  God  she  was  gone  !  I  could  not  have 
endured  her  presence  much  longer  without  be- 
traying my  feelings  by  a  wild  explosion.  Yes ; 
it  was  as  I  expected — the  face  in  the  daguerreo- 
type was  tlie  face  of  Christina  Braun.  Her 
dream,  then,  had  come  true.  She  had  done 
her  part.  She  was  successful. 

Ah,  God !  I  hardly  needed  to  look  at  the 
poor  little  daguerreotype  or  to  struggle  against 
the  growing  dusk  for  a  clear  sight  of  that  face. 
By  some  force  of  ineffable  conviction,  the  mo- 
ment Lilla  came  into  the  room  and  spoke  of 
Mdlle.  Reichstein,  I  guessed  the  truth  of  which 
I  had  never  dreamed'before.  Often  as  she  had 
talked  to  me  of  Mdlle.  Reichstein,  the  notion 
had  never  before  occurred  to  my  mind  that  the 
successful  prima  donna  could  be  my  lost  Chris- 
tina. But  the  letter — the  few  lines  I  had  my- 
self received  that  night — brought  her  back  in 
my  mind  as  a  living  reality  again,  and  I  knew 
the  whole  truth  before  my  eyes  or  ears  had  any 
evidence  of  it. 

Yes,  I  am  unable  to  account  for  it,  but  I 
knew  it  to  be  the  fact  that  the  moment  Lilla 
entered  the  room  and  named  the  name  of  Mdlle. 
Reichstein,  it  came  on  me  with  the  convincing 
force  of  a  revelation  that  she  and  Christina 
Braun  were  one,  and  that  I  had  lost  Christina 
forever. 

She  was  successful.  Did  I  not  know  that 
she  would  be  some  time  ?  •  And  yet  it  came  on 
me  now  with  a  surprise  which  was  like  agony. 
Like  agony  ?  Nay,  it  was  agony ;  for  it  severed 
us  more,  far  more,  thari  death  could  do.  She 
was  lost,  lost  to  me.  The  one  hope  which  had 
lighted  my  lonely  life  so  long  had  utterly  gone  out. 
When,  years  ago,  I  used  to  hold  her  to  my  heart 
and  talk  to  her  of  her  future  success,  I  always 
spoke  of  it  as  conjoined  with  my  own,  as  the 
crown  of  a  common  happiness.  In  how  many 
hours  of  love  and  hope,  in  how  many  happy  walks 
under  the  summer  stars,  in  how  many  silent 
dreams,  had  we  pictured  that  triumph  for  her 
and  for  me !  We  were  to  make  our  way  to- 
gether through  life,  to  become  successful  and 
famous,  and  then  to  come  back  and  amaze  the 
little  town,  which  we  magniloquently  declared 
did  not  know  us.  Or,  if  we  did  not  succeed— 
for  I  at  least  had  my  moments  of  distrust  and 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


doubt — I  always  looked  forward  to  our  strug- 
gling and  perhaps  suffering  together,  still  happy 
because  together.  Even  our  sudden  and  strange 
separation  I  had  sometimes  regarded  as  a  glo- 
rious self-sacrifice,  to  be  crowned  and  rewarded 
some  day.  Many  a  night  had  I  returned  sick 
of  heart  and  weary  of  foot  to  my  London  lodg- 
ing, and,  musing  over  the  hours  of  happiness, 
love,  and  hope  I  had  once  enjoyed,  been  cheer- 
ed and  brightened  by  the  thought  that  perhaps 
my  struggles  here  were  working  in  unseen  co- 
operation with  hers  toward  the  same  end. 
There  was  still  at  least  a  link  of  compan- 
ionship, and  a  hope  that  it  might  draw  us  to- 
gether one  day.  As  my  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  pale,  far-off  star  of  my  hope,  it  was  some 
consolation  and  joy  to  think  that  wherever  she 
might  be  her  eyes  and  her  soul  were  turned  to- 
ward it  too. 

And  now,  behold,  one  half  at  least  of  our  most 
ardent  prayer  has  been  fulfilled.  She  has  won 
all  we  dreamed  of  and  hoped  for.  Why  do  I 
not  rejoice  ?  I  was  to  have  been  the  first  to 
hail  her  triumph,  and  now  I  greet  it  with  agony 
and  shame ;  as  if  her  success  were  my  defeat 
and  humiliation.  And*it  is  so.  I  feel  that  no 
poverty,  no  failure,  no  temporary  isolation  un- 
der the  pressure  of  misfortune  could  raise  such 
barriers  between  her  and  me  as  this  fatal  grant- 
ing of  one  half  our  prayer.  Poor  people  may 
become  less  poor,  or  they  may  grow  familiar 
with  poverty  and  learn  to  endure  it,  or  they  may 
conquer  its  pain  by  the  strength  of  love  and  hope. 
But  this  revelation  of  her  success  has  sounded 
the  last  of  love  and  hope  for  me.  Why,  all  these 
years  that  I  have  been  picturing  her  heart  as 
turning  eternally  toward  mine,  and  panting  for 
reunion,  she  has  been  simply  making  her  way 
in  the  world !  She  has  run  over  some  of  the 
most  thrilling  chords  of  human  experience ;  she 
has  won  every  height  to  which  she  aspired ; 
while  I  have  been  removing  from  one  town  to 
another,  my  greatest  triumph  to  exchange  a 
garret  for  a  small  back-parlor.  I  feel  crush- 
ed down  by  grief  and  shame.  She  must  de- 
spise me.  She  has  actually  patronized  me! 
The  great  singer  has  granted,  at  the  humble 
petition  of  a  poor  girl,  a  letter  of  introduction, 
to  help  a  struggling  and  obscure  poor  devil  to 
an  engagement  in  a  chorus.  I  had  imagined 
many  a  renewal  of  our  former  days,  many  a  first 
greeting  after  our  long  separation,  many  a  meet- 
ing under  all  conceivable  circumstances  of  joy 
and  of  sorrow ;  but  I  had  thought  of  nothing 
like  this.  I  had  forgotten  to  picture  myself  as 
a  broken-down  beggar  petitioning  for  help ;  and 
her  as  a  triumphant  and  splendid  prima  donna 
granting  me  the  favor  at  the  solicitude  of  a 
wealthy  and  elderly  lover.  Why,  it  seems 
but  last  week  that  she  wrote  those  letters 
I  keep  in  my  trunk,  full  of  such  love,  and 
tenderness,  and  admiration  —  admiration  for 
me !  and  now  I  am  her  debtor  for  a  letter  of 
introduction,  obtained  through  the  importunity 
of  Lilla  Lyndon  and  the  influence  of  her  rich 
uncle,  in  order  that,  if  I  am  well  conducted,  I 


may  receive  perhaps  an  engagement  in  the  cho- 
rus of  the  Italian  Opera !  I  wonder  she  did  not 
send  me  a  small  present  of  money !  But  per- 
haps if  I  obtain  a  place  as  chorus-singer  through 
her  influence,  and  conduct  myself  properly,  and 
never  appear  to  recognize  her,  she  may  "assist 
me  in  some  other  way  too.  She  may,  for  ex- 
ample, give  Lilla  the  making  of  some  of  her  fine 
stage -dresses,  or  even  the  place  of  her  own 
dressing-room  attendant;  and  if  Lilla  and  I  get 
married,  the  great  prima  donna  may  kindly  be- 
come godmother  to  one  of  our  children !  Ah, 
but  if  the  prima  donna  should  marry  Lilla's  rich 
uncle,  then  indeed  something  better  could  doubt- 
less be  done  for  Lilla  than  to  marry  her  to  a 
wretch  like  me  I  In  the  bitterness  of  my  heart 
it  seemed  as  if  my  love  for  Christina  had  turned 
into  hate. 

I  was  only  aroused  from  the  depth  of  bitter 
thought  into  which  I  had  plunged  by  my  own 
voice — by  the  sound  of  a  deep,  involuntary,  ir- 
repressible groan,  wrung  from  me  by  agony  of 
love,  disappointment,  shame,  hate.  In  the  si- 
lent, darkling  room  the  groan  sounded  hollow 
and  ghostly,  as  in  a  vault  of  death.  It  aroused 
me  as  a  dreamer  is  sometimes  awakened  by  the 
sound  of  his  OAvn  babble  or  laughter. 

I  started  up  with  the  resolve  to  do  something. 
Yes,  there  was  something  I  could  and  would 
do — I  would  see  her  face  to  face.  I  would  go 
to  her,  speak  to  her,  ask  of  her  how.  she  dared 
to  insult  me  with  her  patronage.  I  meant  no 
appeal  to  the  love  of  the  old  days,  no  poor  and 
pitiful  plaint,  no  ghastly  effort  to  recall  the  dead 
past  from  the  grave.  No ;  we  are  parted  for- 
ever ;  and  I  accept  my  doom,  and  make  no 
complaint.  Only  she  shall  know  that  I  want 
no  patronage,  and  will  stoop  to  accept  none. 
Let  her  spare  me  that.  For  the  sake  even  of 
the  old  days  which  she  has  forgotten,  for  the 
sake  of  the  love  which  I  would  not  now  have 
her  renew  if  I  could — no,  by  Heaven ! — let  her 
spare  me  that !  Let  me  but  see  her,  speak  to 
her,  vindicate  to  her  face  my  pride  and  my  in- 
dependence ;  and  perhaps — perhaps  I  then  can 
better  bear  with  life. 

Filled  with  this  thought,  I  went  down  stairs 
and  tapped  at  the  door  of  Mrs.  Lyndon's  room, 
endeavoring  meanwhile  to  still  the  fierce  beat- 
ings of  my  heart,  and  to  keep .  some  control 
over  my  voice  and  manner.  Lilla's  voice  called 
to  me  to  come  in.  I  had  hoped  to  find  her  mo- 
ther there,  thinking  I  could  get  on  better  in 
ordinary  conversation  if  there  were  three  of  us 
at  it  than  in  mere  tete-a-tete  with  my  quick  and 
sharp-eyed  Lilla.  But  I  could  hear  Mfs.  Lyn- 
don at  work  at  some  cookery-business  below  in 
the  kitchen,  and  Lilla  was  alone.  Must  I  con- 
fess the  truth  ?  I  almost  hated  the  poor  girl 
for  her  well-meant,  kindly,  luckless  interference 
on  my  behalf. 

When  I  entered,  Lilla  was  apparently  in  a 
condition  of  great  comfort  and  happiness.  She 
was  lying,  or  rather  huddled  up,  on  a  little 
sofa,  which  was  drawn  over  to  the  table,  on 
which  a  lamp  threw  a  soft  and  pleasant  light, 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


•53 


and  she  was  reading  a  novel.  Lilla  loved  nov- 
el-reading. She  had  a  great  shawl  gathered 
cozily  around  her,  covering  her  from  neck  to 
feet_indeed,  I  think  her  feet  must  have  been 
coiled  up  under  her,  sultana  fashion,  for  great- 
er comfort ;  for  the  night,  though  in  summer, 
had  turned  a  little  chilly,  and  Lilla  had  been 
out  in  the  rain  on  my  behalf.  In  fact,  the 
poor  girl  had  probably  taken  off  her  wet  dress, 
and  had  wrapped  herself  in  a  shawl  as  an  easy 
substitute.  I  know  she  always  liked  to  get  the 
room  to  herself  when  she  had  a  novel  to  read, 
for  her  mother  was  a  dreadfully  irritating  per- 
son at  such  a  time,  full  as  she  always  was  of 
anxious  questions  and  perplexing  recommend- 
ations. So  Lilla  was  evidently  very  happy,  and 
as  she  looked  up  at  me  with  her  beaming  eyes, 
and  her  pretty  head  peeping  above  the  great 
enveloping  shawl,  in  which  the  whole  of  her  fig- 
ure was  lost,  she  must  have  been  very  charm- 
ing to  any  eyes  but  mine.  In  my  bitter,  dis- 
eased, distracted  state  of  mind  it  irritated  me 
to  see  her  looking  so  cozy  and  pretty  and  hap- 
py. I  felt  much  as  an  angry  man  feels  when, 
striding  moodily  to  his  fire,  he  stumbles  over 
the  sleek,  contented,  purring  cat  that  lies  bask- 
ing on  the  hearth-rug. 

"Have  you  brought  me  my  picture?"  asked 
my  happy  Lilla. 

There  was  an  intense  odor  of  savory  frying 
below,  which  I  grieve  to  think  must  have  con- 
duced a  good  deal  to  the  happiness  of  this  good 
girl's  mind.     Her  harmless  and  comfortable  lit- 
tle sensuousness  was  regaled  and  propitiated  on 
the  odor  from  below,  like  the  good-will  of  the 
old  gods  on  the  steam  of  the  fat  sacrifice. 
"Yes,  I  have  brought  it." 
"Isn't  it  lovely  ?" 
"Very." 

"How  chillingly  you  say  that!  Men  have 
no  taste ;  and  I  am  sure  it  is  all  nonsense  to 
say  that  we  don't  admire  pretty  women  more 
than  you  do.  I  am  quite  in  love  with  that  face 
and  hair ;  and  you  don't  seem  to  care  a  straw 
about  it." 

"Well,  I  think,  I  believe  I  should  like  to 
keep  it  a  little  longer,  just  to  study  it,  Lilla, 
and  understand  it  a  little,  if  you  don't  object, 
and  will  leave  it  to  me  only  for  to-night." 

Had  I  been  asking  Lilla  to  elope  with  me, 
or  to  steal  her  uncle's  purse  for  me,  I  could  not 
have  preferred  the  request  in  more  awkward  and 
stammering  accents.  My  pretty  one  gathered 
herself  into  something  like  a  more  upright  pos- 
ture on  the  sofa,  and  looked  at  me  with  all  the 
inquisitive,  penetrating  brightness  of  her  eyes. 
"  Oh  yes,  surely.  I  am  very  glad  you  want 
.  to  look  at  it  a  little  more,  for  I  should  be  so 
pleased  if  you  came  to  admire  it  as  I  do.  But 
I  don't  understand  you  to-night,  somehow — 
you  don't  seem  like  yourself." 

"All  the  better  if  I  seem  like  somebody  else 
— any  body  else,  Lilla." 

"Nonsense!  Tell  me  one  thing,  and  speak 
truly,  and  without  any  evasion  or  chaff — are 
you  at  all  sick  ?  Because,  if  you  are,  I  really 


must  set  mamma  at  you ;  but  if  not — I  mean, 
f  there's  any  thing  wrong  that  isn't  sickness,  or 
catching  cold,  or  that  sort  of  thing — mamma 
would  be  only  a  bore  and  a  plague  to  you,  and 
yon  had  better  be  let  alone.  Tell  me  frankly, 
Jo  you  wish  to  be  let  alone  ?" 

"Indeed,  Lilla,  I  am  perfectly  well." 
;'  Then  you  want  to  be  let  alone  ?" 
"  I  see  you  have  been  reading.     What's  the 
novel ?" 

"Oh,  a  charming  thing — so  beautiful  and 
poetic;  only  it  is  so  sad — The  Improvisators; 
do  you  know  it  ?  by  Hans  Christian  Andersen, 
the  Danish  novelist.  I  have  just  been  reading 
such  a  touching  passage.  The  .hero  was  in  love 
with  an  actress,  you  know,  a  beautiful  creature, 
and  they  got  separated  somehow — through  a 
mistake  entirely — and  he  never  saw  her  for 
years  and  years  after;  and  when  at  last  he 
came  to  see  her  again  (on  the  stage),  for  the 
first  time  since  their  separation,  she  was  quite 
withered  and  old,  and  her  beauty  was  all  gone. 
It  is  such  a  touching  chapter.  All  her  youth 
was  gone,  and  her  good  looks,  and  she  was  old." 
"Even  beautiful  actresses,  Lilla,  must  get 
old." 

"But  why  were  they  separated?     It  is  too 
sad ;  I  don't  like  stories  that  are  so  sad." 
"Yet  you  read  it,  and  think  it  charming." 
"Yes,  I  can't  help  being  delighted  with  it. 
But  it  is  too  melancholy.     I  can't  bear  to  think 
of  their  long,  long  separation,  and  of  her  being 
old  and  withered  when  at  last  they  met.     I  sup- 
pose such  things  do  happen  ?" 

"  I  suppose  they  do.  I  think  I  have  heard  of 
such  separations,  or  read  of  them,  perhaps." 

Again  Lilla  looked  curiously  at  me,  and  she 
put  down  the  book. 

"Speaking  of  beautiful  actresses,  Lilla,"  I 
said,  with  a  supreme  effort  to  be  light  arid  care- 
less, ' '  does  your  beautiful  friend,  Mademoiselle 
Reichstein,  live  far  from  here;  and  did  you 
walk  home  through  all  the  rain  ?" 

"Yes.  It  Avas  rather  a  distance ;  but  I  didn't 
mind  in  the  least. " 

"Did  you  tell  me  where  it  was?  I  quite 
forget." 

"In  Jermyn  Street,  just  opposite  an  hotel — 
I  don't  know  the  number — a  very  nice  place. 
Some  elderly  person  lives  with  her — a  compan- 
ion, or  friend,  or  something  of  the  kind." 

Mrs.  Lyndon  just  then  came  up,  and  pressed 
me  to  stay  with  them  and  have  supper ;  but  I 
told  them  I  had  to  go  into  town  again.  I  had 
forgotten  to  see  somebody  with  whom  I  had 
an  appointment,  and  must  try  to  find  him  now, 
late  though  it  was. 

I  got  out  of  the  house  somehow.  It  was  now 
a  streaming  wet  night,  and  I  tramped  long 
enough  before  I  could  find  an  omnibus  going 
my  way.  When  I  got  at  last  to  the  Haymark- 
et  it  was  half  past  ten  o'clock,  and  I  was  very 
wet.  An  appropriate  hour,  a  pleasant  condi- 
tion', in  which  to  present  myself  as  a  visitor  at 
the  door  of  a  lady's  boudoir !  I  felt  a  grim  and 
bitter  satisfaction  in  the  thought  of  my  forlorn 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


and  wretched  appearance.  I  almost  wished 
that  I  were  in  rags,  that  I  might  be  the  more 
savagely  in  contrast  with  her  condition — that  I 
might  stand  in  utter  wretchedness  before  her, 
and,  fierce  in  my  desolate  independence,  fling 
back  her  patronage  and  her  written  vows  of 
love.  I  longed  to  stand  before  her  and  say, 
"Look  at  this  ruined  and  hopeless  wretch,  this 
ragged  beggar !  This  was  your  lover !  There 
are  your  written  vows  of  love  for  him,  and  thus 
he  flings  them  back  to  you,  with  the  offer  of 
your  queenly  patronage.  Pauper  though  he 
may  be,  you  shall  not  dare  to  befriend  him. 
Let  the  beggar  die.  He  shall  not,  at  least,  be 
fed  with  the  crumbs  that  fall  from  your  table !" 
I  found  the  house  without  difficulty.  A 
waiter  standing  at  the  door  of  Cox's  Hotel  told 
me  at  once  where  Mdlle.  Reichstein  the  sing- 
er lodged.  The  drawing-room  windows  were 
all  dark.  In  my  savage  mood  I  felt  bitterly 
disappointed  at  the  prospect  of  not  seeing  her 
after  all.  I  knocked  at  the  door. 

Mdlle.  Reichsteiu  had  gone,  the  servant  told 
me. 

Gone  where  ? 

She  didn't  quite  know ;  somewhere  abroad  : 
to  Paris,  she  thought.  She  went  that  evening, 
by  the  night-mail. 

Could  she  inquire,  and  find  out  for  me? 
She  went  into  the  house,  but  came  back  to 
say  she  really  could  not  get  to  know.     Mdlle. 
Reichstein  had  gone  certainly  to  the  Continent, 
with  her  maid  and  the  other  lady ;  to  Paris  first, 
probably,  but  the  lady  of  the  house  thought  she 
was  very  likely  going  somewhere  farther  away. 
Would  she  return  here  soon  ? 
Oh  no,  certainly  not.     Not  before  next  sea- 
son. 

That  was  all.  I  could  find  out  nothing  else. 
I  turned  away  from  the  door  with  a  sickening 
sense  of  disappointment  and  hopelessness.  Ah, 
only  the  Power  above  could  tell — I  surely  could 
not — how  much  of  a  secret,  passionate  longing 
to  see  her  again,  for  any  purpose,  on  any  terms, 
was  mingled  with  my  fierce  resolve  to  confront 
her,  and  to  fling  her  back  her  agonizing  proffer 
of  service. 

I  turned  into  the  glaring,  chattering,  hell- 
lighted  Haymarket — a  stricken,  hopeless  wretch. 
Despite  the  rain  that  still  came  down  pretty 
heavily,  this  Babel  of  harlotry  was  all  alive  and 
aflame  with  its  beastly  gayety. 

I  strode  my  way  along  with  head  down  and 
reckless  demeanor,  careless  whom  I  jostled. 
Blindly  I  struck  up  against  somebody,  who  first 
drew  back  and  swore  at  me,  and  then,  seizing 
me  by  my  arm,  exclaimed  : 

"  My  heroic  preserver !  would  you  overturn 
rudely  the  friend  who  longed  to  meet  you  ? 
What !  not  know  me  ?  How  bears  himself  ce 
fjros  militaire  f" 

Of  course  I  knew  him.  It  was  my  confound- 
ed friend  of  Dover. 

'  "  I  told  you  we  should  meet  again,"  he  said. 
"I  don't  know  that  it's  quite  a  fortunate  thing 
for  you ;  but  we  are  all  in  the  hands  of  the  des-  ! 


tinies.  You  see  Heaven  would  bring  us  to- 
gether." 

"The  devil  rather,  I  should  think,"  was  my 
grumbled  answer. 

"  Let  it  be  the  devil,  dear  young  friend,  if 
you  have  faith  only  in  him.  It  cheers  me  to 
find  that  you  believe  even  in  the  devil ;  youth 
is  so  unbelieving  nowadays.  But  you  are  cynic- 
al to-night,  which  means,  I  dare  say,  that  she 
is  faithless  or  out  of  humor.  Bear  up,  and  let 
us  be  merry.  Look  here :  you  are  wet,  so  am 
I ;  you  are  out  of  sorts,  so  am  I.  Let  us  spend 
a  jovial  hour  together,  and  mingle  our  tears."  ' 

I  could  have  welcomed  just  then  the  society 
of  Satan.  He  not  appearing,  I  suffered  my 
other  friend  to  put  his  arm  in  mine  and  lead  me 
away. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
GOODBOY'S  BROTHER. 

I  AWOKE  next  morning  with  a  fierce  head- 
ache, a  deep  sense  of  moral  debasement,  and  a 
still  deeper  sense  of  savage  satisfaction  in  my 
own  degradation.  I  contemplated  a  sort  of 
moral  suicide.  It  seemed  like  an  act  of  venge- 
ance on  her  who  had  loved- me  and  now  cast 
me  away,  thus  to  crush  and  ruin  the  nature  of 
the  being  to  whom  she  once  turned  in  love. 

I  am  not  fond  of  oral  confessions  or  moral 
self-exposures,  and  therefore  I  hasten  to  say 
that  my  abasement — this  my  first  abasement — 
would  have  been  in  the  eyes  of  any  ordinary 
Haymarket  habitu6  a  very  small  affair  indeed^. 
I  drank  too  much  that  night — and  for  the  first 
time — that  was  all.  As  the  next  day  wore  on, 
and  I  grew  better  accustomed  to  the  quite  new 
sense  of  shame,  I  frankly  told  Lilla  Lyndon  of 
my  excess  of  the  previous  night,  and  she  did 
not  seem  to  think  a  great  deal  about  the  mat- 
ter. I  was,  on  the  whole,  rather  disappointed 
that  she  took  it  so  composedly.  Moral  suicide, 
after  all,  seemed  a  commonplace  process. 

Yet  Lilla  looked  grave  and  frowned  warning- 
ly  at  me  when  she  saw  me  going  out  again 
about  the  same  hour  that  night. 

"Once  and  away,"  she  observed,  "mayn't 
be  very  bad ;  'but  take  care,  Emanuel,  or  we 
shall  all  be  sorry." 

I  was  going  into  the  Haymarket,  where  I  had 
pledged  myself  to  meet  my  friend  again.  A 
queer  sort  of  fascination  drew  me  toward  him ; 
and  some  words  he  had  let  drop  the  previous 
night — words  I  now  remembered  but  faintly — 
had  keenly  quickened  my  interest  in  him. 
When  we  parted  I  promised  to  meet  him  in  the 
colonnade  of  the  opera-house  at  nine  o'clock; 
and  at  nine  I  was  there.  Very  soon  after  he 
made  his  appearance,  and  I  noted  at  once  that 
the  appearance  he  made  was  considerably 
changed.  He  was  all  new,  from  hat  to  boots, 
and  his  gloves  were  of  dainty  lavender. 

"Surprised  at  the  change,  my  dear  young 
friend?"  he  observed,  complacently.  "Don't 
be  ashamed  to  confess  that  you  have  been  look- 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


'I  TOLA*   YOU    WE   tJUOCJLI)  MJiET 


56 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


ing  at  me  with  eyes  of  wonder  and  admiration 
I  am  not  susceptible  of  offense ;  and  the  horr 
age  of  the  ingenuous  can  never  displease  tl: 
serene  soul.  I  was  very  shabby-looking  yeste 
day,  and  now  I  am  not  so.  I  do  not  blush  t 
confess  that  the  change  is  not  wholly  owing  1 
my  own  merit  or  industry. " 

"  You  told  me  you  were  a  great  hand  at  bil 
iards,  and  indeed  I  saw  some  evidence  of  yoi 
skill  last  night." 

"  So  you  did.     I  think  I  rather  astonishe 
you  and  the  others  too.    But  it  isn't  that.    Yo 
see  me  in  the  sunshine  of  a  prosperity  the  sourc 
of  which  you  could  never  guess.     Indeed, 
upsets  the  creed  of  half  a  lifetime  with  me. 
should  never  have  believed  it,  were  I  not  a  liv 
ing  proof  of  the  fact.     Listen,  youth  ;  and,  i 
prematurely  given  over,  as  you  doubtless  are 
to  cynicism,  learn  now  a  new  and  refreshin 
lesson  of  life.     I  am  a  living  evidence  of  a  wo 
man's  gratitude." 
4 'Glad  to  hear  it." 
"But  you  don't  seem  sufficiently  startled 
Did  you  ever  find  a  woman  true  and  grateful  ? 
•"No,  by  God!" 

"Aha,  there  you  are  with  your  bears! 
thought  as  much.  There  was  good  earnest  in 
that  vow.  Will  you  come  with  me  to  my  lodg 
ings  ?  Yes,  I  have  lodgings-near  at  hand ;  that's 
part  of  the  mystery.  Come  Avith  me.  I  long 
to  be  a  host  once  more,  especially  to  one  who, 
like  myself,  so  evidently  belongs  to  the  brother- 
hood of  poor  devils." 

We  walked  along  Jermyn  Street.  When  we 
passed  the  house  where  she  so  lately  lived  my 
eyes  turned  unconsciously  toward  it  and  fixed 
themselves  on  it.  He,  too,  was  looking  that 
way;  it  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 
He  noticed  my  gaze. 

"  How  odd !"  he  observed  ;  "  you  are  looking 
at  No.  15 — I  am  looking  at  No.  15.  It  can't 
have  the  same  story  for  you  and  for  me.  Did 
you  catch  a  sight  of  some  pretty  Mary-Jane  in 
smart  cap  and  ribbons  ?  Frivolous  youth  I" 

Frivolous  youth  made  no  answer,  and  indeed 
remained  silent  until  we  had  reached  Bury 
Street,  and  gone  some  way  down  it. 

My  companion  stopped  at  a  door,  took  out  a 
latch-key,  opened  the*  door  with  it,  and  waved 
to  me  with  an  air  of  gracious  lordliness  to  enter. 
"My  lodgings!"   he  exclaimed;    "second- 
floor  front." 

The  second-floor  front  was  a  small,  hand- 
somely-furnished sitting-room,  with  bedroom 
en  suite.  My  friend  lighted  a  lamp,  and  mo- 
tioned me  to  an  arm-chair. 

"  I  took  these  rooms  at  once  to-day,"  he  said, 
"on  receiving  the  unexpected  mark  of  grati- 
tude of  which  I  spoke  to  you.  They  are  plain 
but  commodious.  The  engravings  on  the  wall 
are  not  remarkable  as  works  of  art.  Let  me 
see  :  '  The  Happy  Days  of  Charles  the  First' — 
simple  inanity.  Her  gracious  Majesty  on  horse- 
back in  military  habit.  Well,  well*  let  us  be 
always  loyal,  however  the  court-painter  may  try 
us.  '  Phoebe' — a  young  woman  simpering  over 


a  fowl  of  some  sort — dove,  I  presume — and  ap- 
parently wearing  only  her  chemise,  which  she 
has  omitted  to  fasten  round  the  neck :  idiotcy «. 
No  matter.  There's  a  piano,  you  see,  which  is* 
something.  Do  you  love  music  ?" 

"Love  it,  no!  No  more,  that  is.  Live  by  it." 
' '  Live  by  it,  and  not  love  it !  No,  you  can't ! 
Not  even  in  this  cursed  day  of  quacks  and  shams 
and  successful  Jack  Puddings  can  any  man  live 
by  music  who  does  not  love  it.  I  only  wish  the 
converse  of  the  proposition  held  equally,  and 
that  every  one  who  loved  it  could  live  by  it. 
Were  that  so,  some  people  might  have  been 
more  virtuous  and  independent,  perhaps,  than 
they  are.  Now,  my  young  friend,  whose  name 
I  have  not  even  yet  the  honor  of  knowing,  but 
shall  presently,  perhaps,  ask  to  be  favored  with 
— there  is  brandy,  there  is  water,  and  yonder 
are  cigars.  I  am  going  to  sing  a  little,  but 
smoke  if  you  will;  it  can't  put  my  pipe  out." 

He  sat  down  to  the  piano,  his  queer  little  legs 
hardly  touching  the  ground,  and  his  long  arms 
spreading  over  the  instrument  like  the  wings  cf 
some  ungainly  bird.     One  could  hardly  expect 
much  sweet  music  from  so  ridiculous-looking 
a  form,  surmounted  by  a  curly  black  wig  •  but 
e  played  with  no  common  skill  and  with  quite 
uncommon  feeling  and  fervor.      Presently  he 
sang,  in  full,  sweet,  and  solemn  tones,  the  hymn, 
" Lord,  remember  David."    Strangely  pathetic, 
deep,  and  passionate  sounded  that  mournful  ap- 
peal as  it  issued  from  the  lips  of  this  singular 
and  scoffing  little  creature.    I  own  that  it  touch- 
ed me  as  much  as  it  puzzled  me,  so  profound 
eemed  the  sincerity  with  which  the  prayer  and 
he  plaint  went  up  in  that  tender,  thrilling  voice. 
"  Lord,  remember  David ;  teach  him  to  know 
[*hy  ways ! "     Every  word  seemed  to  come  from 
him  with  a  pathetic,  passionate  earnestness,  so 
leep  that  one  could  almost  for  the  time  imagine 
le  heard  the  half-despairing  utterance  of  some 
onerous  and  noble  nature  crying-out  for  strength 
o  battle  against  temptation,  and  for  light  to  see 
n  the  world's  foul  darkness.     I  dreaded  the 
lose  of  the  hymn,  so  much  did  I  shrink  from 
he  contrast  of  levity  or  profanity  with  which  I 
elt  sure  he  would  instantly  follow  it.     But  I 
yas  mistaken.     He  sat  silent  a  moment  or  two 
vhen  he  had  finished,  and  then  jumped  up  from 
le  piano  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room. 
Vfter  a  while  I  could  hear  him  repeating  to 
imself  some  of  the  words  of  the  prayer  in  a  low 
one,  as  if  it  refreshed  him  to  dwell  on  them. 

"Now  then,"  he  said  at  last,  "you  who  live 
n  music,  but,  I  think  you  said,  don't  care  a 
urse  about  it,  give  us  a  musical  blasphemy — I 
nean,  of  course,  a  song  from  unenthusiastic  lips, 
ome  along ;  make  no  apologies  or  pretexts, 
dare  say  I  have  heard  a  hundred  better  singers 
efore  now,  so  you  need  not  stand  on  ceremony." 
I  sang  something  for  him,  accompanying  my- 
lf.  He  stood  behind  me  the  while,  and  now 
nd  then  uttered  a  sort  of  growl  of  satisfaction 
r  grunt  of  discontent. 

Ah,  I  thought  so,"  he  observed  when  I  had 
one ;  "yes,  I  felt  sure  I  could  not  be  mistaken. 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


It  was  you,  then,  I  heard  at  the  Dover  concert, 
Mr.  Emanuel  Temple!  Well,  Temple,  I've 
heard  a  good  many  worse  singers  than  you,  and 
a  few  better.  I  think  you  ought  to  get  on, 
though  I  do  fancy  somehow  that  you  want  soul. 
But  I  should  say,  with  training  and  cultivation, 
and  the  advice  of  qualified  critics — like  myself, 
for  example — you  ought  to  make  your  way, 
Temple.  I  advise  you  to  stick  to  it,  Temple. 
I  decline  to  offer  you  the  blessing  of  an  old 
man,  Temple ;  first,  because  I  don't  admit  be- 
ing old ;  and  next,  because  I  fear  my  bless- 
ing would  be  like  that  of  the  priest  in  the 
story,  and  worth  considerably  less  than  a  far- 
thing. But  I  have  prophesied  of  singers  before 
now,  and  prophesied  correctly.  I  was  hinting 
to  you  just  now  of  that  rare  and  strange  thing, 
a  woman's  gratitude,  and  the  romantic  story  is 
a  story  of  a  singer. " 

The  glance  I  had  seen  him  give  at  the  win- 
dows which  were  lately  Christina's,  and  the 
words  he  let  fall  immediately  after,  had  aroused 
my  curiosity.  But  I  thought  I  had  observed 
enough  of  his  perverse  and  eccentric  little  na- 
ture to  know  that  the  more  readily  I  displayed 
my  curiosity  the  less  inclined  would  he  be  to 
gratify  it ;  so  I  affected  an  air  of  supreme  cyni- 
cism, and  coolly  said : 

"  Then  you  expect  me  to  believe  in  woman's 
gratitude  ?  Thank  you ;  but  I  really  can't  oblige 
you  so  far,  and  I  have  no  faith  in  romantic  sto- 
ries." 

"  Nothing  amuses  me,"  he  replied,  "  so  much 
as  the  pert  affectation  of  cynicism  in  brats  of 
boys.  You  know  very  well,  Temple,  that  if  you 
left  your  real  nature  to  itself,  it  would  be  rather 
credulous  and  soft  than  otherwise.  Do  you 
know  now  that  you  struck  me  from  the  first  as  a 
good-natured  and  simple  sort  of  fellow — an  hon- 
est young  spooney,  in  fact ;  a  lad  that  any  smart 
girl  might  turn  round  her  finger  —  a  being 
doomed  by  nature  to  be  married  to  a  woman 
who  will  assume  the  wearing  of  the  breeches  as 
her  natural  right  ?  That  is  quite  my  idea  of 
you,  Temple ;  give  you  my  word,  as  a  candid 
friend  and  admirer." 

''Well,  but  without  occupying  ourselves  in 
the  discussion  of  my  moral  organization,  what 
of  your  romantic  story,  and  your  grateful  wo- 
man ?" 

"  You  want  to  hear  it,  evidently." 

"Not  very  particularly  ;  but  if  you  insist — " 

"  Well,  here  it  is.  When  I  came  to  London 
the  other  day,  and  while  yet  casting  aoout  for 
the  best  way  to  torment  my  nearest  relatives 
and  raise  some  money,  I  devoted  myself  tofld- 
ner  a  little  on  the  side  of  Regent  Street,  think- 
ing of  the  old  days,  Temple,  when  I  too  was  a 
club  lounger,  and  a  man  about  town,  and  so  on. 
I  happened  to  glance  into  a  photographer's, 
and  there  I  saw  a  photograph  of  a  singer,  the 
singer  of  the  season,  the  woman  the  two  opera- 
houses  have  been  squabbling  about,  you  know." 

"Yes.      Reichstein." 

"Reichstein,  of  course.  In  a  moment  I 
recognized  her  as  an  old  friend,  Temple." 


"Of  yours?  She— Mdlle.  Reichstein— an 
old  friend  of  yours!" 

"Why  not?  What  are  you  glowering  at? 
She's  not  an  old  friend  of  yours,  I  suppose; 
and  even  if  she  is,  you  needn't  look  daggers  at 
me.  Did  I  say  an  old  friend  of  mine  ?  Why, 
man,  I  discovered  her,  I  invented  her,  I  created 
her!  I  crossed  the  Channel  with  her  years 
ago  when  she  was  a  poor  little  thing  going  to 
Paris,  and  hoping  to  get  on  to  Italy,  and  I  took 
quite  a  paternal  liking  to  her ;  quite  paternal, 
Temple,  I  can  assure  you,  and  for  the  good 
reason  that  she  wouldn't  allow  of  any  other  sort 
of  liking ;  and  I  introduced  her  in  Paris  to  an 
Italian  fellow  whom  I  knew,  a  fellow  who  was 
mad  on  two  things — Music  and  Italian  Revolu- 
tion ;  and  he  quite  took  her  up,  and  I  only  saw 
her  once  after  in  Milan,  where  he  was  having 
her  drilled  for  the  Scala.  That,  too,  is  four  or 
five  years  ago ;  and  to  tell  you  the  honest  truth, 
Temple,  I  never  thought  of  the  little  thing  from 
that  day  to  the  day  when  I  saw  her  portrait 
here  in  this  den  of  thieves." 

"Did  you  go  to  see  her?" 

"Well,  I  did  call;  but  she  didn't  happen  to 
be  in,  and  I  was  not  very  sorry  perhaps,  for,  as 
you  can  testify,  my  gifted  vocalist,  I  was  not 
quite  in  splendid  trim  about  that  time.  But  I 
left  a  letter  with  a  mild  reminder  of  my  early 
services  and  a  warm  congratulation  upon  her 
brilliant  success,  to  which  it  was  .gracefully 
hinted  that  my  artistic  insight  had  not  a  little 
contributed.  Then  there  came  an  oblique, 
pathetic  intimation  that  Fortune  had  not  per- 
haps been  quite  so  favorable  to  myself;  and  in 
short  I  am  afraid  it  was  conveyed  more  or  less 
vaguely  that  gratitude  and  sympathy  might  not 
unreasonably  take  the  form  of  an  early  and  lib- 
eral remittance." 

I  had  hard  work  to  keep  down  my  rising 
disgust  and  contempt. 

"And  the  remittance  came?"  I  said,  to  say 
something,  as  I  saw  he  was  looking  toward  me, 
with  his  head  on  one  side  and  his  little  beady 
black  eyes  twinkling  inquiringly. 

"  Yes,  the  remittance  came,  and  it  was  lib- 
eral ;  so  liberal  in  fact  that  I  have  put  off  for 
the  present  opening  the  campaign  I  am  pre- 
pared to  undertake.  So  you  perceive,  Temple, 
that  there  are  women  who  can  be  grateful ;  per- 
haps I  should  rather  say  that  there  are  men  so 
happily  endowed  as  to  be  capable  of  exciting 
the  sentiment  of  gratitude  in  woman's  breast. 
Between  ourselves,  the  service  I  rendered  was 
not  very  great,  for  I  had  actually  at  the  time 
a  sort  of  general  and  roving  commission  from 
my  friend  the  Italian  revolutionary  to  look  out 
for  fine  fresh  voices  wherever  they  could  be 
picked  up — he  had  a  mania  for  establishing  an 
artistic  pare  aux  cerfs  of  young  voices  —  only 
artistic  and  vocal,  Temple,  nothing  more;  he 
was  a  very  Bayard  or  Scipio  in  that  way ;  and 
I  simply  sent  the  girl  to  him,  and  thought  no 
more  about  the  matter.  What  of  that?  It 
only  makes  the  gratitude  more  touching.  It 
is  a  noble  and  a  holy  thing,  you  know,  to  call 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


up  such  a  feeling;  that  sentiment  in  the  wo- 
man's breast  is  cheaply  bought  by  her  at  the 
money." 

"In  fact,  you  place  her  under  a  fresh  obliga- 
tion?" 

"Well,  as  you  put  it  so,  yes." 

"And  found  perhaps  a  claim  hereafter  for 
another  remittance  ?" 

"  That  is  your  sneer,  I  dare  say.  No,  my 
scornful  young  friend,  I  think  I  shall  be  con- 
tent with  that  much  from  that  quarter.  Let 
me  tell  you,  however,  to  show  how  little  I  value 
your  feeble-minded  insinuation,  that  I  am  one 
of  those  who  are  rather  proud  to  be  relieved  by 
the  soft  and  generous  hand  of  woman.  I  think 
history  records  that  John  duke  of  Marlborough, 
and  other  great  men,  acknowledged  a  similar 
sentiment,  or  at  least  acted  on  it.  Nature  is 
all  symbolic,  Temple ;  whence  do  we  derive 
our  earliest  sustenance?  From  woman's  gen- 
erous bosom.  Go  to,  then;  the  meaning  of 
Nature's  beautiful  parable  must  be  evident  to 
all  true  and  poetic  hearts.  Mine  is  essentially 
a  poetic  nature ;  yours  I  perceive  is  not ;  you 
look  at  the  bare  rude  fact  of  my  pocketing  the 
young  woman's  money,  and  do  not  see  the  de- 
lightful illustration  of  Nature's  noblest  and  old- 
est purpose  which  it  symbolizes.  What's  the 
matter  with  you  ?" 

"  I  have  not  been  quite  well  lately ;  but — " 

"Drink  brandy,  Temple;  drink  again." 

"Do  you  know  whether — whether  this  lady, 
Mdlle.  Keichstein,  is  married  ?" 

"Not  I.  How  should  I  know ;  and  what  do 
I  care  ?  Very  likely  she  is  ;  they  all  get  mar- 
ried, these  people.  The  flag  of  matrimony  is 
a  very  convenient  emblem." 

I  got  up  to  go  away ;  his  talk  was  hateful  to 
me ;  and  yet  I  clung  to  any  feeble  hope  that  I 
might  extract  some  knowledge  about  her  past 
life  and  her  probable  future. 

"Do  you  know  where  she  is  gone?" 

"Kussia,  I  believe;  but  I  am  not  certain. 
Somebody  told  me  that  some  rich  Londoner,  a 
member  of  parliament  and  patron  of  the  drama 
— I  don't  know  him,  but,  as  Charles  Lamb 
said,  '  d —  him  at  a  venture' — was  always  to  be 
seen  hanging  after  her,  and  making  rather  an 
idiot  of  himself. " 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  of  that,"  I  interposed, 
very  incautiously;  "and  I  know  who  it  is — a 
Mr.  Lyndon." 

"What  did  you  say?"  exclaimed  the  little 
creature,  leaping  from  the  chair  in  which  he 
sat,  and  standing  upright  before  me.  "What 
name  did  you  give  ?" 

"Lyndon — a  Mr.  Lyndon,  a  member  of  the 
House !" 

"  Earth  and  hell !  Tommy  Goodboy !  Tom- 
my Goodboy  himself!  Of  all  the  hypocrites  of 
this  most  hypocritical  age,  Tommy  Goodboy  is 
the  greatest  hypocrite.  Among  all  the  scoun- 
drels in  an  age  of  scoundrelism,  no  scoundrel 
like  Tommy  Goodboy.  Look  at  me,  Temple ! 
I  am  Goodboy's  victim  :  Goodb'oy  stands  in  my 
shoes ;  Goodboy  wallows  in  my  money  !  He  is 


the  head  of  the  family,  the  respectable  citizen, 
the  model  man,  the  patron  of  every  charity,  the 
Maecenas  of  art ;  and  I  am  the  ruffian,  the  out- 
cast, the  billiard-room  hanger-on,  the  frightful 
example ! " 

An  idea  at  last  began  to  dawn  upon  me  as  to 
the  identity  of  my  queer  friend.  Were  these, 
then,  the  two  faces  I  had  seen  vaguely  and  tan- 
talizingly  shadowed  in  his?  Lilla's  face,  and 
Mr.  Lyndon's  ?  Is  this  creature,  this  half-crazed 
sensualist,  this  selfish  loafer,  -this  wretch  living 
on  alms  and  extorted  money,  this  ^combination 
of  Hircius  and  Spungius,  my  poor,  pretty,  kind- 
ly Lilla's  father  ? 

He  was  now  walking  up  and  down  the  room, 
throwing  his  arms  wildly  about  like  a  little  mad- 
man. I  went  up  to  him  as  gently  and  kindly  as 
I  could. 

"You,  then,"  I  said,  "are  the  elder  brother 
of  Mr.  Lyndon  ?" 

"Who  the  devil  else  do  you  think  I  am? 
Do  you  suppose  I  am  proud  of  being  that  cold- 
hearted,  sneaking  humbug's  brother?  Yes^I 
am  his  brother — the  brother  whom  he  cheated 
out  of  house  .and  home,  out  of  his  father's  fa- 
vor, out  of  his  inheritance,  out  of  every  thing 
that  could  make  life  worth  having.  Was  I  an 
idle,  good-for-nothing  scape-grace  ?  Of  course 
I  was.  But  what  was  he  ?  All  that  I  did  open- 
ly and  recklessly,  he  did  cunningly  and  under- 
hand. How  did  he  ruin  me  at  last  ?  By  be- 
traying to  my  father  the  one  good  thing  I  ever 
did  in.  all  my  life.  It's  as  true  as  light,  Tem- 
ple. My  father  cut  me  off  without  a  rap  be- 
cause I  had  been  d — d  fool  enough  to  marry  a 
pretty  girl  instead  of  seducing  her.  Whatever 
misfortune  may  happen  to  you  in  life,  Temple, 
never  do  a  virtuous  action.  Be  warned  in  time 
by  me.  When  I  die,  or  hang  myself,  if  there  can 
by  any  means  be  raised  money  enough  to  set  up 
a  tombstone  over  me,  let  my  epitaph  describe  me 
as  the  man  whom  Eespectability  and  Virtue  out- 
lawed and  robbed,  because  he  had  once  in  his  life 
— only  just  once — failed  to  behave  like  a  scoun- 
drel." 

I  was  on  the  point  of  blurting  out  some  hasty 
words  which  would  have  admitted  my  knowl- 
edge of  Lyndon's  wife  and  daughter.  Fortu- 
nately, however,  I  restrained  myself  in  time, 
and  recollected  how  more  than  doubtful  it  was 
whether  they  would  be  the  better  for  any  in- 
discretion which  put  such  a  creature  on  their 
track.  Poor,  poor  Lilla !  with  her  good  heart, 
her  sweet  kindly  nature,  her  harmless  vanities, 
and  at  least  not  unnatural  hopes  and  aspirings, 
to  think  that  this  unfortunate  and  worthless 
wretch,  whose  chief  or  sole  excuse  seemed  to 
be  his  half-crazed  eccentricity,  should  be  her 
father!  I  always  fancied  that  the  poor  girl 
cherished  in  her  secret  heart  some  fond  ro- 
mantic hope  that  the  lost  mysterious  father 
might  one  day  reappear,  redeemed,  penitent, 
and  splendid,  to  claim  his  daughter  and  lead 
her  into  the  sphere  which  she  thought  her 
rightful  place.  I  know  that  she  always  re- 
garded her  father  as  some  brilliant  aristocrat 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


who  had  stepped  down  from  his  high  rank  for 
love  of  her  poor  mother  —  some  Egmont  or 
Leicester  to  whom  Mrs.  Lyndon  was  the  Clara 
or  Amy  Robsart ;  and  he  filled  her  imagination 
even  in  his  fall  rather  as  an  archangel  ruined 
than  as  any  commonplace  sinner.  I  know — 
she  often  hinted  as  much  to  me — that  she  se- 
cretly yearned  for  him,  and  waited  for  him  to 
come  some  day  and  redeem  her  from  poverty 
and  meanness,  and  the  society  of  petty  cares 
and  small  intelligences ;  and  to  bring  her  to  a 
sphere  where  there  should  be  bright  surround- 
ings, and  ease  and  luxury,  and  a  life  with  many 
tints  in  it,  and  vivid  conversation,  and  books 
worth  reading,  and  men  who  could  pay  grace- 
ful homage  and  whom  one  could  marry,  and 
women  well-dressed  and  vivacious  and  lovely. 
Often  I  had  thought  to  myself,  in  my  odd 
moods  of  whimsical  melancholy,  that  Lilla's 
phantom  father  and  my  phantom  Christina 
beguiled  and  befooled  us  both  alike,  and  to 
as  little  purpose ;  and  I  wondered  whether,  if 
Lilla  could  know  my  story  and  my  dreams  as 
well  as  I  knew  and  guessed  hers,  she  would  not 
look  on  me  with  the  same  kind  of  wondering 
pity  wherewith  I  regarded  her.  And  now, 
behold,  another  bond  of  companionship  and 
union !  Lilla  had  found  for  me  my  lost  love : 
lo,  I  have  found  her  lost  father !  See,  Lilla, 
there  he  is — that  broken-down,  ridiculous  rep- 
robate yonder,  that  billiard -room  loafer,  that 
ruined,  rattlepate  wretch  in  the  black  wig,  who 
is  stamping  up  and  down  the  room,  blasphem- 
ing as  he  goes ! 
"Mr.  Lyndon!" 

"  My  dear  young  friend,  a  thousand  pardons ! 
You  recall  me  to  myself,  and  remind  me  that  I 
am  not  playing  the  host  to  perfection.  I  am, 
I  fear,  a  little  egotistic  sometimes ;  but  what 
would  you  have  of  a  man  who  has  had  to  con- 
tend against  the  world  and  his  wife — his  own 
wife,  Temple;  not  the  world's,  mind — for  so 
many  years?  Adversity,  Temple,  is  the  pa- 
rent of  egotism.  Pardon  my  distraction." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  that ;  I  was  going  to 
ask  a  question." 

"Propound.  I  reserve  to  myself  the  right 
of  not  answering,  should  the  answer  tend  to 
criminate  me.  In  a'moral  point  of  view,  Tem- 
ple, it  would  not  be  easy  for  me  to  give  any  an- 
swer relating  to  my  own  personal  history  which 
would  not  tend  a  little  that  way.  But  go  on, 
youth  of  the  gloomy  brow." 

"  Only  this.  What  about  your  wife  ?  You 
said  you  were  married." 

"Did  I  admit  so  much?  My  old  weakness 
— too  much  confidence  and  candor.  No  mat- 
ter. You  ask  me  what  about  my  wife  ?  Give 
you  my  word,  Temple,  I  don't  know ;  I  don't, 
really.  I  have  been  away  so  long,  knocking 
about  the  plains  of  windy  Troy,  that  I  posi- 
tively don't  know  where  to  find  my  Penelope 
now  that  I  have  come  back." 
"Should  you  like  to?" 
"Oh  dear  no — not  in  the  least.  I  couldn't 
think  of  it ;  she's  doubtless  very  happy,  and  I 


should  grieve  to  disturb  her :  or  perhaps  she  is 
not  very  happy,  and  then  the  sight  of  her  would 
disturb  me.  No,  Temple,  a  man  of  refined  taste 
shrinks  from  unidealizing— if  you  will  allow  me 
,o  use  such  a  word — from  unidealizing  the  po- 
etic perfectness  of  married  life  by  too  much  of 
mlgar  intercourse  with  its  prosy  details. " 

"  Still,  as  she  is  your  wife — " 

"Just  so ;  there  it  is,  you  see.  If  she  were 
not,  then  it  would  be  quite  a  different  thing : 
jut  she  is  my  wife,  and  I  know  it  to  my  cost.  I 
3aid  a  heavy  debt  for  the  sweet  privilege  of  call- 
ng  her  so,  and  I  am  not  ardent  for  any  more 
of  her  mild  society.  You  look  horrified,  I  per- 
ceive. Erankly,  I  don't  care." 

"  She  may  be  poor  and  lonely — " 

"  My  good  fellow,  am  not  /  poor  and  lonely  ? 
Could  any  one  be  poorer  than  I  was  the  other 
day,  and  shall  be  soon  again,  no  doubt?  Am 
I  not  lonely,  or  worse  than  lonely,  in  having  no 
companionship  but  that  of  a  silly  and  moping 
young  moralist  like  you  ?  Do  you  think  adding 
two  poor  people  together  produces  wealth? 
Put  together  cipher  and  cipher,  and  see  how 
much  better  off  you  are  for  the  result.  Be- 
sides, have  I  not  told  you  I  know  nothing,  ab- 
olutely  nothing,  of  her  whereabouts  ?" 

"  But  suppose — " 

"I  don't  want  to  suppose :  I  decline  to  sup- 
pose. I  tell  you,  Temple,  I  can't  live  on  pap ; 
some  men  can,  I  believe ;  I  can't.  Eood  for 
babes  does  not  nourish  me.  I  lived  on  it  long 
enough,  and  you  see  the  result.  If  there  is  any 
thing  in  life  I  utterly  detest,  it  is  puling,  meek, 
mawkish  goodness.  I  rage  at  it ;  it  sets  me 
mad.  I  long  to  tear  and  tatter  it." 

"But  your  child — your  daughter?" 

' '  Did  I  tell  you  I  had  a  daughter  ?  Really, 
you  find  me  in  a  strangely-confiding  mood  to- 
night. Well,  I  have  a  daughter;  at  least,  I 
know  I  had,  and  I  believe  I  still  have.  What 
then  ?" 

"  Only  one  might  have  thought — " 

"  Yes,  one  might,  no  doubt.  One  might  have 
thought  that  the  father's  heart  would  melt ;  that 
he  would  burst  into  sobs,  and  exclaim,  in  bro- 
ken accents,  'My  angel  chee-ild!' — that  he 
would  weep  on  the  neck  of  the  good  person  who 
had  appealed  to  his  paternal  feelings,  and  be- 
come a  respectable  member  of  society.  In  the 
domestic  melodrama,  Temple,  from  which  I 
perceive  already  your  principal  ideas  of  life  are 
drawn— whmt's  the  price  of  the  gallery-seats  in 
the  Victoria? — that  sort  of  thing  does,  I  believe, 
familiarly  occur.  But  this,  Temple,  is  real  life ; 
and  we  are  not  on  the  stage  of  the  Victoria.  I 
make  no  doubt  my  daughter's  a  very  well- 
brought-up  and  proper  young  woman,  who 
would  look  with  horror  on  such  a  reprobate  as 
I  am ;  and  I  can  not  say  that  the  voice  of  Na- 
ture shrieks  very  powerfully  or  plaintively  in 
my  ears.  No,  Temple,  it  won't  do." 

"Then  have  you  really  no  care  for  any 
thing?" 

"  Yes !"  he  answered,  in  vehement  and  fierce 
tones— I  had  long  been  expecting  an  outburst 


60 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


of  passion — "  for  money  and  for  freedom !  Fo 
money  to  spend,  and  for  freedom  to  spend  it  in 
Give  me  these — and  I  will  have  them,  whereve 
I  get  them— and  I  can  enjoy  every  thing  *ha 
life  gives  for  enjoyment,  from  moonbeams  am 
music  up  to  absinthe  and  madness.  But  I  wil 
have  money,  and  I  will  be  free !  I  will,  I  will 
I  don't  care  who  or  what  comes  between  m 
and  my  way  of  life ;  I  sweep  it  out  of  my  roa< 
and  go  on.  Don't  talk  to  me  of  nature  am 
domestic  affections,  and  drivel  of  that  kind ; 
don't  want  them — I've  had  enough  of  them  t< 
last  my  time.  Hate  is  much  more  in  my  line 
than  love.  I  came  to  London  for  the  double 
purpose  of  screwing  money  out  of  my  thrice 
accursed  brother,  and  disgracing  myself  am 
him  at  the  same  time ;  and  I  will  do  it  too !  '. 
would  have  done  it  before  now  but  that  tha 
fool  of  a  woman  sent  me  this  money,  which  ] 
mean  to  enjoy  before  I  go  to  work.  Pleasure 
first,  business  afterward  with  me.  Go  to  the 
devil  with  your  talk  about  my  wife  and  m} 
chee-ild !  What  is  it  to  you  ?  Are  vou  seni 
as  an  emissary  here  from  Tommy  Goodboy? 
If  you  are,  go  back  to  him  and  tell  him  wha 
my  answer  is :  tell  him  I'll  make  his  respecta- 
bility blush  yet,  if  I  can  not  make  his  heart  of 
pumice-stone  feel." 
.  "I  never  spoke  a  word  to  Mr.  Lyndon  in  mv 
life." 

"Then  perhaps  you  are  an  emissary  from 
my  wife.  If  you  are,  go  back  and  tell  her  the 
best  thing  she  can  do  is  to  leave  me  to  myself.' 
"Listen  to  me,  Mr.  Lyndon,  and  don't  waste 
on  me  all  these  rhapsodies  and  ravings.  Keep 
them  for  somebody  on  whom  they  might  pro- 
duce some  desirable  effect.  I  assure  you  they 
move  me  only  to  sincere  pity  and  contempt, 
never  knew  until  twenty  minutes  ago  who  you 
were,  and  I  never  cared.  I  spoke  to  you  on  no 
one's  behalf,  at  no  one's  suggestion.  I  spoke 
to  you  only  because  I  thought  it  hardly  possible 
you  could  be  wholly  degraded  below  the  feel- 
ings of  average  manhood.  I  find  I  was  mis- 
taken. That  is  enough.  I  leave  you,  and  only 
hope  we  may  not  meet  any  more. " 

He  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  leaned  back, 
and  burst  into  a  peal  of  mellow  laughter.  If  I 
know  any  thing  of  reality  as  distinguished  from 
acting — and  I  ought — this  was  no  affectation  or 
sham,  but  genuine,  honest,  hearty,  irrepressible 
laughter.  He  rolled  about  in  his  chair,  and 
stamped  his  feet,  and  shook  his  shoulders  like  a 
pigmy  Sam  Johnson  in  a  fit  of  unconquerable 
mirth. 

I  stood  up,  angry,  and  ashamed  of  being  an- 
gry— thinking  what  a  great  deal  I  would  give, 
if  I  had  it,  to  feel  myself  at  liberty  to  kick  him ; 
and  all  the  time  considering  whether  I  could  in 
any  possible  way  serve  poor  Lilla's  interests  by 
keeping  on  good  terms  with  him. 

"  I  protest,  Temple," he  said  at  last,  when  he 
was  able  to  speak  from  very  laughing,  "you  do 
delight  me.  As  good  as  a  play  ?  Man,  you're 
worth  a  whole  season  of  broad  comedy !  To 
look  at  the  expression  of  your  face  that  time,  to 


watch  your  gesture,  to  hear  the  earnest  elo- 
quence of  your  language,  was  the  finest  treat 
any  man  with  a  rich  sense  of  humor  could  pos- 
sibly have.  You  are  the  most  delightful  of 
young  men — " 

"And  you  are  the  most  scandalous  of  old 
reprobates." 

"Coarse,  Temple,  coarse,  and  not  half  so 
fervent  as  your  graver  style.  But  I  see  you 
are  waxing  wroth  at  being  laughed  at.  Well, 
I  dare  say  no  one  likes  being  laughed  at,  and 
of  course  the  more  ridiculous  he  is  the  less  he 
likes  being  treated  as  such,  and  I  really  don't 
want  to  offend  you ;  so  let  us  consider  the  sub- 
ject as  dropped.  Take  a  little  more  brandy? 
No?  What,  you  are  not  going?  Positively 
offended !  Well,  of  all  the  idiots  it  has  ever 
been  my  fortune  to  meet  you  are  the  most  con- 
spicuous. Get  out!  Go  to  all  the  devils! 
Confound  you,  I  am  a  gentleman,  and  not  a 
Christy's  Minstrel  like  you !  Insult  a  gentle- 
man !  By  Jove !  what's  the  world  coming  to  ?" 

All  these  concluding  sentences  were  rattled 
at  my  ears  as  I  was  descending  the  stairs.  Un- 
til I  had  fairly  quitted  the  house  I  could  hear 
him  swearing  and  objurgating.  Then,  as  I 
passed  under  the  window,  I  found  that  he  was 
having  recourse  to  the  piano  to  cool  his  wrath. 
I  paused  a  moment  out  of  curiosity.  He  was 
singing,  to  his  own  accompaniment,  "I  know 
that  my  Redeemer  liveth." 

I  hurried  away.  The  words,  the  sweet,  pa- 
thetic, devotional  tones,  sounded  in  my  ears 
like  hideous  blasphemy. 

I  walked  slowly  home,  my  mind  occupied 
with  the  uncomfortable  discovery  I  had  made, 
and  much  perplexed  to  know  whether  there 
was  any  thing  I  could  or  ought  to  say  or  do 
with  regard  to  it.  It  clearly  seemed  that  I  had 
no  right  to  inflict  useless  torture  on  Mrs.  Lyn- 
don or  Lilla  by  telling  them  any  thing  about  my 
knowledge  of  this  wretched  man.  From  what 
le  had  over  and  over  again  told  me  it  was  cer- 
;ain  that  he  had  come  to  London  for  the  pur- 
)ose  of  shaming  his  brother  into  supplying  him 
vith  new  funds,  and  it  was  evident  that  there 
was  no  extravagant  escapade  or  exposure  of 
vhich  the  little  wretch  would  not  be  capable. 
On  the  whole,  then,  it  se*emed  to  me  that  the 
jest  thing  I  could  do  would  be  to  see  Mr.  Lyn- 
don at  once,  and  put  him  on  his  guard.  Mr. 
.yndon  too  might,  like  a  sensible  man  of  the 
vorld,  feel  inclined  to  buy  off  his  disreputable 
>rother  even  for  Lilla's  sake — to  settle  on  him 
ome  pension  on  condition  of  his  living  out  of 
England  or  out  of  Europe ;  and,  disagreeable 
;s  the  task  would  be,  I  would  willingly  under- 
ake  the  work  of  negotiation  and  arrangement 
n  order  to  ward  off  vexation  and  shame  from 
hese  two  poor  women,  who  had  been  so  kind 
o  me.  Yes,  that  was  the  best  thing  to  do,  and 
here  was  no  time  to  be  lost,  as  Mr.  Lyndon 
/•ould  be  leaving  town  immediately.  My  mind 
ras  made  up.  Little  as  I  cared  to  obtrude  my- 
elf  on  Lilla's  uncle,  I  determined  to  see  him, 
n  this  cause,  next  day. 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


Gl 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
AN  ODD  INTERVIEW' AND  AN  UNEXPECTED 

MEETING. 

ARE  there  any  poor  people  who  never  felt  an 
impress  of  something  like  awe  and  timidity  at 
their  first  direct  contact  with  wealth  ?  I  have 
heard  and  read  of  noble,  independent  beings, 
serene  in  the  unsurpassed  and  conscious  digni- 
ty of  mere  manhood,  who,  in  whatever  poverty, 
never  felt  the  faintest  flutter  of  envy,  awe,  or 
humiliation  when  they  stood  for  the  first  time 
in  the  presence  of  a  great  man's  flunkeys,  and 
asked  to  see  the  great  man  himself.  Are  there 
such  persons  ?  I  don't  say  I  disbelieve  in  their 
existence,  but  I  should  like  to  hear,  on  the  au- 
thority of  some  one  more  skilled  than  I  to  pen- 
etrate the  secrets  of  human  consciousness,  that 
there  really  are  beings,  of  that  kind  before  I 
quite  believe  in  them.  My  own  impression  is, 
that  civilized  man  or  woman  of  humble  class 
hardly  ever  yet  knocked  for  the  first  time  at  the 
door  "of  a  great  West  End  mansion  without  a 
beating  of  the  heart,  a  mingling  of  awe  and 
humiliation.  It  is  very  mean  and  shabby  and 
unworthy,  and  sa  are  most  of  our  instinctive 
impulses,  which  at  last  we  school  down,  or  are 
schooled  and  mastered  by.  Deep,  deep  down 
in  our  civilized  nature  is  rooted  the  abject  hom- 
age to  wealth.  I  almost  think  it  begins  with 
the  wearing  of  clothes.  I  doubt  whether  the 
very  next  stage  of  civilization  after  nakedness 
does  not  witness  the  internal  growth  of  that 
servile  sentiment.  I  think  we  keep  singing 
our  "A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that,"  and  our 
"  Vilain  et  tres-vilain,"  in  order  to  drown  the 
feeling  or  exorcise  it,  as  they  play  martial  airs 
to  keep  up  the  manhood  of  the  raw  recruit.  Of 
course  we  get over  it  sometimes ;  at  least,  thank 
Heaven,  we  do  not  all  succumb  to  it  wholly.  I 
am  not  much  of  a  sneak  myself,  and  I  never 
yet  sought  the  patronage  of  a  man  of  rank,  or 
put  myself  in  his  way  to  get  his  nod,  or  bragged 
to  my  acquaintance  that  I  had  met  him — and  I 

.  know  that  I  am  no  whit  more  independent  than 
many  of  my  neighbors — but  I  have  felt  the  poor 

•man's  sentiment  of  awe  for  wealth;  I  have 
done  to  wealth  the  involuntary  homage  of  be- 
ing afraid,  and  hearing  my  heart  beat,  as  I 
stood  in  its  august,  unfamilfar  presence.  Many 
of  my  friends  are  people  connected  somehow 
with  the  world  of  art,  and  who-  have  made  their 
way  up  from  nothing.  Some  of  them  have  fine 
West  End  houses  now  of  their  own,  and  car- 
riages, and  awful  footmen  in  livery ;  but  I  think 
if  I  were  talking  confidentially  with  each  of 
them  in  turn  over^  cigar  and  a  glass  of  brandy- 
and-water,  he  would  frankly  admit  that  one  of 
the  most  trying  moments  of  his  life — one  of  the 
moments  when  he  found  it  hardest  to  keep  up 
his  dignity  of  independent  and  equal  manhood — 
was  just  the  first  time  when,  having  knocked  at 
some  great  man's  door,  he  waited  for  the  open- 
ing of  it  and  the  presence  of  the  flunkey. 

Now  I  stood  this  Sunday  morning  at  the  door 
of  Mr.  Lyndon,  M.P.,  and  I  realized  these  sen- 


sations. I  had  come  to  ask  no  favor — to  seek 
no  patronage  —  to  bespeak  no  recognition — to 
pave  the  way  for  no  acquaintanceship.  If  any 
thing,  I  was  coming  out  of  my  regular  beat  of 
life  rather  to  confer  a  favor  than  to  solicit  one ; 
and  yet  I  did  feel  that  ignoble,  nervous  tremor 
which  the  unaccustomed  presence  of  wealth  in- 
spires in  the  poor  man,  and  which  is  the  base 
image,  the  false  coin,  the  bastard  brother  of  the 
soul's  involuntary  homage  to  beauty  and  great- 
ness. I  knocked  at  the  door,  and,  as  I  waited 
for  its  opening,  I  felt  so  nervous  that  I  grew 
positively  ashamed  of  myself,  and  took  my  cour- 
age in  two  hands,  as  the  French  phrase  goes, 
and  remembered  about  a  man  being  a  man  for 
a'  that. 

Mr.  Lyndon,  M.P.,  lived  in  a  fine  house  in 
Connaught  Place,  looking  straight  into  Hyde 
Park.  One  had  to  go  up  high  steps  to  get  to 
the  door,  which  lent  additional  majesty  and 
dread  to  the  business.  It  was,  as  I  have  said, 
a  Sunday ;  and  as  I  came  hither  I  had  passed 
crowds  of  people  streaming  out  of  the  doors 
of  fashionable  churches,  and  seen  splendidly 
dressed  women,  all  velvets  and  satins  and  feath- 
ers, assisted  into  their  carriages  by  footmen  who 
carried  gilded  prayer-books  ;  and  I  wondered 
whether  Mr.  Lyndon  had  been  to  church,  and 
if  so,  whether  he  would  have  come  back  from 
his  worship  by  the  time  I  readied  his  house, 
and  whether  it  was  a  dreadful  heathenish  sort 
of  thing,  a  kind  of  outrage  upon  Church  and 
State,  to  ask  to  see  such  a  man  at  all  on  Sun- 
day. To  go  to  church,  too,  seemed,  in  pres- 
ence of  the  splendid  crowds,  so  necessary  and 
becoming  a  part  of  respectability,  that  I  felt 
like  a  social  outlaw  because  I  had  not  been 
there,  and  was  not  much  in  the  habit  of  going 
there.  My  sensations  were  not  the  pangs  of 
an  awakened  conscience,  but  the  kind  of  feeling 
which  goes  through  a  man  who,  unshaved  and 
with  muddy  boots,  unconsciously  intrudes  into 
the  midst  of  a  well-dressed  and  elegant  com- 
pany. 

When  I  found  out  Mr.  Lyndon's  house  I 
wondered  much  why  such  a  man,  especially  if 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  going  to  church,  could 
not  do  something  kind  and  substantial  for  his 
niece  and  his  brother's  wife,  whose  chief  crime, 
poor  thing,  appeared  to  have  been  her  incon- 
venient virtue ;  and  why  he  would  not  at  least 
take  them  out  of  poverty  and  debt,  and  the 
perpetual  presence  of  temptation.  This  I  was 
thinking  when  the  door  opened,  and  I  stood  in 
the  presence  of  the  great  man's  servant. 

Well,  it  was  not  so  dreadful  after  all.  I 
really  don't  think  I  minded  it  in  the  least  after 
the  first  sound  of  my  voice.  Mr.  Lyndon  at 
home? 

Yes,  Mr.  Lyndon  is  at  home.  The  servant 
seemed  to  say  by  his  look  of  cold  inquiiy, "  What 
then,  young  man?  Admitting  that  Mr.  Lyn- 
don is  at  home,  which  it  can't  be  worth  while 
concealing  from  you,  how  can  the  fact  in  any 
way  concern  you?" 

I  mildly  asked  if  I  could  see  him. 


G2 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


The  man — who  was  civil  enough,  by-the-way 
—merely  asked  if  I  had  an  appointment ;  Mr. 
Lyndon  did  not  usually  see  people  unless  by  ap- 
pointment.    The  pampered  menial  of  a  bloate 
aristocracy  clearly  assumed  at  the  first  glanc 
that  I  was  not  a  visitor,  a  friend  of  the  family 
"  Will  you  take  in  my  card,  and  say  I  wis' 
to  speak  a  few  words  to  Mr.  Lyndon  very  par 
ticularly  ?     I  think  he  will  see  me." 

Presently  the  servant  came  back  and  told  m 
that  if  I  would  wait  a  few  minutes  Mr.  Lyndoi 
would  see  me.     I  was  shown  into  a.  large,  cold 
handsome  room,  with  the  blinds  down,  and  i 
conservatory  at  one  side.     A  group  of  marbl 
figures,  nearly  life-size,  stood  in  front  of  th 
conservatory.     They  were  the  familiar  Graces 
and  they  were  covered  over  with  a  shroud  of 
very  thick  muslin ;  so  thick>  indeed,  that  the 
covering  seemed  put  on  less  as  a  protectior 
against  dust  and  discoloration  than  as,  a  vei 
to  hide  the  nakedness  of  the  classic  women 
during  the  severely  proper  hours   of  Sunda 
service.     I  did  not  give  much  attention,  how 
ever,  to  these  marble  forms ;  for  my  eyes  were 
caught  by  an  exquisitely  framed  photograph 
of  large  size,  which  stood,  conspicuous,  on  the 
chimney-piece.     It  was  the  likeness  of  Chris- 
tina— once  my  Christina,  when  she  was  poor 
and  obscure,  and  we  were  both  happy. 

"Please  to  walk  this  way,  Sir;  Mr.  Lyndon 
Avill  see  you." 

I  followed  the  servant  across,  an  echoing  hal 
and  into  a  library.  At  a  desk  in  the  centre, 
with  letters  and  papers  all  about  him,  with 
Blue-books  piled  on  the  floor  near  his  arm- 
chair, and  on  his  other  side  a  waste-paper 
basket  overflowing  with  pamphlets,  sat  Mr. 
Lyndon,  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  some  document 
he  was  rending. 

He  was  a  formal,  rather  handsome,  close- 
shaven  man,  wearing  the  high  stand-up  collars 
which  now  are  almost  as  rare  as  pig-tails.  His 
thick  hair  was  iron-gray ;  his.  complexion  was 
fast  purpling ;  his  eyes,  when  he  favored  me  by 
looking  up,  were  much  lighter  than  those  of  his 
brother  or  of  Lilla — they  were  a  cold,  steely 
gray.  I  marked  the  rigid  expression  of  his 
chin  and  jaw — it  might  have  been  cruelty,  or 
it  might  have  been  stern  virtu.e,  according  as 
you  pleased  to  construe  it ;  even  in  history  and 
in  action  it  is  not  always  easy  to  distinguish  the 
one  from  the  other.  In  Mr.  Lyndon's  case  I 
could  not  but  think  that  the  full,  sensuous  lips 
helped  one  a  little  to  make  the  decision. 

This,  then,  was  Tommy  Goodboy.  I  am 
bound  to  say  that  from  the  very  first  I  took 
a  dislike  to  Tommy  Goodboy. 

Mr.  Lyndon  left  me  for  some  seconds  plante 
la  without  looking  at  me  or  speaking.  I  was, 
in  fact,  about  to  open  the  conversation,  when 
he  suddenly  looked  up  with  an  air  first  of  irri- 
tation, then  of  vacancy ;  then  he  looked  down 
at  my  card,  which  was  lying  before  him  on  his 
desk,  and  at  last  he  spoke : 

"Oh,  Mr.  Temple!  Yes,  I  recollect  now. 
My  niece  did  speak  to  me  about  you,  and  I 


promised  her  that  if  I  could  do  any  thing— but 
I  am  sure  I  don't  know.  Why  did  you  not 
come  sooner — some  time  in  the  season,  Mr. 
Temple  ?  This  is  no  time ;  and  eveiy  body  is 
out  of  town ;  and  I  am  leaving  town  myself  to- 
morrow ;  and,  in  fact,  I  am  very  busy  to-day, 
and  hardly  counted  on  being  disturbed.  I  don't 
usually  see  any  body  on  Sundays ;  but  as  you 
have  come— and  I  certainly  did  promise  my 
niece  to  see  you — " 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Lyndon.  I  have  not  come 
to  remind  you  of  your  promise,  or  to  ask  any 
favor  of  you  ;  indeed,  I  would  accept  none  even 
if  it  were  offered,  although  I  feel  deeply  obliged 
to  Miss  Lyndon." 

"To  Miss  Lyndon?" 

4 '  To  your  niece.     Yes. " 

"Oh,  to  be  sure— Lilla  Lyndon,  my  niece. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  make  any  demand  on  your 
kindness,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned.  I  hope  to 
be  able  to  work  my  own  way." 

He  merely  bent  his  head,  as  a  sort  of  formal 
acknowledgment. 

"I  have  not  come  on  any  business  of  my 

n." 

"  Sent  by  my  niece,  I  suppose  ?" 

"No,  Mr.  Lyndon.  She  does  not  know  any 
thing  about  my  coming  here." 

He  looked  down  at  his  papers,  and  glanced 
at  his  watch.  The  actions  were  significant ; 
they  said  very  plainly,  "If  you  have  any  thing 
to  say,  say  it  at  once,  and  go. " 

"I  dare  say  you  consider  my  visit  an  intru- 
ion. " 

"  Not  at  all.    At  least,  that  quite  depends — " 

"  I  have  come  about  a  matter  which  concerns 
-ou,  or,  at  least,  which  I  thought  might  possibly 
concern  you." 

He  looked  at  me  with  cold  surprise. 

"  I  met  lately,  more  than  once  in  Dover,  and 
lere  in  London,  a  person  whom  I  believe  to  be 
i  member  of  your  family — your  brother,  in  fact." 
He  did  start  a  little  and  wince  as  I  gave 
lim  this  piece  of  news. 

I  was  not  aware  that  he  had  returned  from 
ibroad.     Are  you  quite  sure  ?" 

"Quite  sure;  at  least,  he  told  me  so.  In- 
e«d,  I  might  have  guessed  the  fact  even  with- 
ut  his  telling  me." 

"  Well,  Sir,  if  you  formed  any  acquaintance-  i 
hip  with  the  person  you  speak  of — and  I  gath- 
r  from  your  manner  that  you  did — it  would  be 
uperfluous  to  tell  you  that  he  is  not  a  person 
/hose  return  to  England  could  give  any  pleas- 
re  to  me  or  to  any  member  of  his  family.  That 
act  it  would  be  idle  for  me  to  attempt  to  dis- 
uise.  I  did  not  know  that  he  had  returned  to 
England,  or  expect  his  return,  or  desire  to  see 
im.  You  know,  therefore,  that  you  are  the 
earer  of  unwelcome  news.  The  question  I 
ould  ask  is,  why  you  have  gratuitously  taken 
ti  yourself  the  task  of  making  the  announce- 
lent.  I  suppose  I  need  hardly  say  that  if  you 
re  the  bearer  of  any  message,  or  request,  or 
ny  thing  of  that  sort  from  the  person  you  speak 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


of,  you  could  not  possibly  present  yourself  with 
worse  credentials." 

"  I  have  no  message  or  request,  and  I  would 
not  make  myself  the  bearer  of  any.  I  assure 
you,  Mr.  Lyndon,  I  am  no  friend  of  your  broth- 
er's. No  member  of  his  family — no,  not  his 
nearest  relation — could  feel  less  inclined  for  his 
society  than  I  am.  It  is  just  because  I  think 
him  so  objectionable,  and  so  offensive,  and  so 
reckless,  that  I  have  come  here  to-day." 

"Well?" 

"  Your  brother  told  me  over  and  over  again, 
before  I  knew  his  name,  that  he  had  come  to 
England  resolved  to  expose,  and  disgrace,  and 
extort  money  .from  some  one.  I  afterward 
learned — indeed,  he  told  me — that  you  are  the 
person  against  whom  this  is  to  be  directed." 

"He  means  to  make  some  disgraceful  exhi- 
bition of  himself,  to  raise  some  scandal,  in  the 
hope  of  terrifying  or  shaming  me  into  buying 
him  off?" 

"He  does." 

"  He  is  quite  capable  of  that,  or  of  any  thing 
else  outrageous  and — and,  in  fact,  infamous." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  he  is.  He  impressed  me 
as  being  all  but  insane  with  hatred  and  reck- 
lessness." 

"Ah!  but  he  is  not  insane.  It  would  be 
well  for  his  family  if  he  were.  He  is  perfectly 
sane.  Well,  have  you,  then,  come  for  the  pur- 
pose of  warning  me?" 

"No.  Frankly,  I  tell  you  that  I  have  not ; 
at  least,  not  on  your  own  account." 

"Listen  to  me,  Mr.  a — a — Temple.  If  you 
should  see  that  person  again,  you  may  tell  him 
that  he  can  do  his  worst.  I  shall  not  buy  him  off 
— no,  not  by  the  outlay  of  a  sixpence.  It's  very 
kind,  no  doubt,  of  you  to  take  the  trouble  to  come 
here,  and  all  that ;  and  of  course  you  will  under- 
stand me  as  expressing  my  sense  of  the  obliga- 
tion." 

"Pray  don't  speak  of  that.  I  have  not  come 
out  of  any  consideration  for  which  you,  Mr. 
Lyndon,  personally  have  any  reason  to  feel 
obliged.  But — " 

My  speech  was  cut  short  by  the  entrance  of 
the  servant,  who  handed  a  card  to  his  master. 
Mr.  Lyndon  looked  at  it,  and  said  with  empha- 
sis: "Certainly.  Let  him  wait;  I  shall, be 
disengaged  in  less  than  one  minute." 

There  was  no  mistaking  this.  I  must  come 
to  the  point,  and  make  good  use  of  my  time. 

"Mr.  Lyndon,  I  have  come  quite  of  my  own 
accord,  and  perhaps  very  foolishly,  to  ask  you 
whether  you  would  not  do  something  in  this 
unpleasant  business  for  the  sake  of  your  niece. 
It  is  such  a  pity  that  a  girl  so  young,  and  so 
poor,  and — and — "  I  blurted  out — "so  pretty, 
should  be  liable  to  be  tormented  and  disgraced 
by  a  man  of  that  kind.  Could  you  not  make 
terms  wi|h  him,  and  buy  him  off,  for  her  sake 
and  for  her  mother's  ?  They  have  had  so  much 
unhappiness  and  poverty ;  and  it's  such  a  pity 
for  poor  Lilla. " 

"  Mr.  Temple,  you  appear  to  be  so  intimate- 
ly acquainted  with  the  personal  history  of  some 


members  of  my  family,  that  I  don't  suppose  I 
add  any  thing  to  your  stock  of  knowledge  when 
I  say  that  I  have  already  done  a  good  deal  for 
my  niece." 

"  Yes,  I  am  aware  of  it.  She  has  told  me  so 
often." 

"  And  that  she  has  no  claim  on  me  ?" 

"No  claim  but  close  relationship." 

"  That  she  has  no  claim  on  me  except  what 
I  feel  inclined  to  recognize.  Now,  I  have  no 
objection  to  Lilla  herself;  indeed,  quite  the 
contrary — I  like  her.  But  I  am  not  going  to 
be  made  the  victim  of  all  her  relations.  On 
that  I  am  quite  determined." 

"  If  you  could  even  take  her  away — to  the 
country  somewhere  ?" 

"  I  am  so  little  in  the  habit,  Mr.  Temple,  of 
discussing  my  family  affairs,  even  with  members 
of  my  own  family,  that  I  really  can  not  fall  into 
!  the  way  of  talking  them  over  with  strangers. 
Will  you  allow  me  again  to  thank  you  for  the 
trouble  you  have  taken  in  coming  so  much  out 
of  your  way?" 

"You,  Mr.  Lyndon,  I  have  once  more  to  say, 
are  in  no  way  indebted  to  me.  I  came  only 
because  I  feel  an  interest  in  your  sister-in-law 
and  your  niece.  I  fear  I  have  done  them  little 
good  by  my  unwelcome  interference." 

"  You  have  done  them,  Sir,  neither  good  nor 
harm." 

He  touched  the  bell  that  stood  upon  his  table. 

I  hastened  out  of  the  room,  without  even 
going  through  the  form  of  a  parting  salutation, 
which,  indeed,  would  have  been  thrown  away 
upon  him,  as  he  had  already  busied  himself  in 
his  papers  with  a  resolute  manner,  as  if  to  an- 
nounce to  me  that  he  would  not  look  up  again 
until  I  had  relieved  him  of  my  unwelcome  pres- 
ence. 

I  was  in  no  pleasant  mood  as  I  crossed  Hyde 
Park.  Especially  was  I  out  of  humor  with  my- 
self, even  more  than  I  was  with  Mr.  Lyndon ; 
and  as  before  I  had  seen  him  I  felt  an  unreason- 
ing dislike  to  him,  and  as  now  that  1  had  seen 
him  and  spoken  with  him  I  felt  a  deep  detesta- 
tion for  him,  it  follows  that  I  felt  somewhat  bit- 
terly toward  myself.  I  knew  that  I  had  made 
a  fool  of  myself;  that  I  had  brought  humiliation 
on  myself;  and  that  all  this  had  been  done  to 
no  purpose,  or  to  an  ill  purpose.  It  takes  a 
very  brave  and  loyal  nature  to  enable  a  man  to 
be  content  with  the  knowledge  that  he  has 
made  a  fool  of  himself,  even  when  thereby  he 
has  benefited  somebody ;  but  it  is  gall  and  worm- 
wood indeed  to  know  that  one  has  made  a  fool  of 
himself,  and  at  the  same  time  frustrated  instead 
of  serving  the  object  he  wished  to  accomplish. 

So  I  went,  scowling  and  sullen,  across  the 
Park,  mentally  girding  at  myself  and  at  the 
loungers  and  idlers  I  met  in  my  way.  I  don't 
know  why,  when  a  man  is  in  a  vexed  and  sulky 
humor,  he  immediately  begins  to  despise  his 
fellow-creatures  whom  he  may  happen  to  meet, 
and  to  set  them  down  as  frivolous  and  worthless 
idlers,  gilded  butterflies,  and  so  forth.  I  know 
that  I  visited,  mentally,  the  pride  and  insolence 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


of  Mr.  Lyndon  upon  every  creature,  man  and 
woman,  who  passed  me.  Madame  Roland  in 
her  maiden  days,  when  snubbed  by  the  aris- 
tocracy of  her  province,  was  not  consumed  by 
a  fiercer  flame  of  democratic  passion  than  I  felt 
that  Sunday  after  I  had  been  a  victim  to  the  in- 
solence of  the  rich  member  of  Parliament.  I 
dare  say  if  the  people  I  scowled  at  in  Hyde  Park 
could  only  have  known  what  was  passing  within 
my  breast,  many  of  them  would  have  felt  highly 
flatterad  and  delighted.  For  the  aristocrats 
Madame  Roland  detested  Avere  aristocrats.  My 
aristocrats  and  pampered  minions  and  gilded 
butterflies  were  in  nine  out  of  ten  instances 
people  very  much  of  my  own  class  of  life,  who 
had  come  out  on  the  Sunday  to  see  the  riders 
and  the  carriages  in  the  Row. 

As  I  approached  the  Row  a  haughty  aristocrat 
passed  me  rather  closely.  He  was  walking,  like 
myself.  It  Avas  like  his  insolence  and  the  arro- 
gance of  his  class !  It  Avas  his  affectation  of 
indifference  to  saddle  or  carriage-cushion.  He 
was  a  tall  and,  as  well  as  I  could  see  in  a  pass- 
ing scowl,  a  handsome  aristocrat.  I  flung  upon 
him  a  glance  of  scorn.  He  eyed  me  rather  cu- 
riously ;  he  even  turned  back  and  looked  stead- 
ily after  me  Avhen  he  had  passed.  I  too  turned, 
and  glared  defiantly  at  him.  He  Avas,  as  I  have 
said,  tall — fully  six  feet  high,  I  should  say,  Avith 
square,  broad  shoulders ;  he  Avas  dark-haired, 
and  had  a  magnificent  beard  of  curly,  silky 
black.  He  was  very  well  dressed — indeed,  far 
too  handsomely  dressed  for  an  aristocrat  on  a 
Sunday.  He  Avas  not  hurling  back  glances  of 
scorn  at  me,  but  Avas  scrutinizing  me  Avith  a 
grave,  earnest  curiosity.  He  advanced  a  step, 
then  fell  back.  I  too  advanced,  a  sudden  light 
of  recognition  flashing  on  me.  Then  we  ap- 
proached each  other  rapidly  and  at  once. 

"Ned  Lambert!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Mr.  Banks!"  said  my  aristocrat.  It  was 
my  old  friend,  the  basso-carpenter. 

NOAV  that  I  came  to  study  his  appearance,  he 
was  not  changed  as  to  features  or  expression. 
He  had  groAvn  much  handsomer — he  always 
was  a  good-looking  fellow,  remarkable  for  his 
fine  eyes  and  his  beard,  but  now  he  was  strik- 
ingly handsome.  He  was  splendidly  built — 
stately  as  a  guardsman,  supple  as  a  gymnast. 
He  had  still  the  grave,  modest,  genial  expres- 
sion Avhich  Avas  so  attractive  about  him  in  the 
old  days.  He  was  only  too  well  dressed ;  for 
as  one  came  to  look  at  him  attentively  there 
Avas  something  about  him  which  seemed  a  little 
out  of  keeping  with  the  clothes.  Perhaps  if  I 
had  not  known  of  his  origin  and  his  bringing- 
up,  I  might  never  have  noticed  this ;  as  it  Avas, 
I  thought  I  could  detect  the  outlines  and  the 
movements  of  the  young  workman  tinder  the 
broadcloth,  the  shiny  hat,  the  fawn -colored 
trowsers,  the  lavender  kid  gloves. 

We  Avere  very  cordial  in  a  moment.  Really 
it  was  kind  of  him  to  walk  with  me  just  there 
and  then ;  I  was  so  very  carelessly,  not  to  say 
shabbily,  dressed.  My  old  friend  and  foe  did 
not  seem  to  care. 


"You  have  been  in  London  long,  Mr.  Banks  ?" 
asked  Lambert. 

I  told  him  how  many  years. 

"So  long,  and  we  never  met  all  that  time! 
I've  been  away  a  good  deal  •  but  still  it  is  odd 
that  Ave  should  both  have  been  knocking  about 
London  so  much  and  never  met." 

He  soon  told  me  all  about  himself.  He  was 
an  organ-builder,  and  was  holding  a  very  'good 
position  in  a  great  house.  He  had  himself  in- 
vented and  introduced  some  improvements  into 
the  construction  of  the  instruments,  and  though 
these  were  not  important  enough  to  bring  him 
fame  or  money,  yet  they  gave  him  consideration 
Avith  his  employers  and  their  patrons ;  and  he 
looked  forward  to  an  ultimate,  perhaps  not  a 
very  distant,  partnership.  He  had  been  sent 
to  many  foreign  cities  to  represent  his  principal 
and.  superintend  the  building  and  putting  up, 
the  repairing  and  improving,  of  organs.  He 
had  been  to  the  United  States ;  he  had  been  in 
St.  Petersburg,  and  Moscow,  and  Stockholm ; 
he  Avas  quite  familiar  with  Rome,  and  Paris, 
and  Madrid.  He  had  liATed  ever  so  many  lives. 
Avhile  I  had  been  vegetating  by  the  Lethean 
Avharf  of  the  Thames's  stodgy  banks.  I  felt 
myself  very  small  indeed  as  he  talked  to  me. 
For  me,  my  story  was  told  in  two  words :  Me 
void. 

There  was  one  subject  Ave  both  seemed  to 
avoid,  yet  surely  Ave  both  were  anxious  to  ap- 
proach it.  We  sometimes  beat  about  it;  in 
this  Avay,  for  example : 

"  You  have  been  in  London  all  lately — for  the 
most  part,  I  mean,  Mr.  Banks  ?" 

"For  the  most  part,  yes.  No,  though;  I 
was  doAvn  in  the  provinces  a  good  deal  all  the 
summer." 

"But  you  were  in  toAvn  some  part  of  the  sea- 
son— of  the  opera  season  ?" 

"  Some  part  of  it ;  not  lately.  I  only  came 
back  to  tOAvn  a  few  days  ago." 

He  Avanted  to  know  if  I  knew  all  aboitt 
Christina.  But  I  shrank  back  as  yet.  It 
came  on  in  another  Avay.  He  insisted  that  I 
must  go  and  dine  with  him.  He  lived  out  St. 
John's  Wood  way. 

"Are  you  married,  Lambert?" 

"No."  He  spoke  very  sloAvly.  "No,  Mr. 
Banks,  I  am  not  married,  and  I  am  not  likely 
to  be.  I  don't  see  what  I  Avant  marrying.  And 
you — perhaps  you  are  married  ?" 

"No.  I  may  take  up  your  own  words — I 
am  not  married,  Ned  Lambert,  and  I  am  not 
ikely  to  be.  I  don't  see  what  I  Avant  marry- 
ng.  And  you  knoAv  the  reason  why.-" 

"Ah!"  He  breathed  hard,  looked  at  me 
Avith  a  stolen  glance  of  kindness,  curiosity,  and 
rity ;  but  he  said  no  more. 

"  Have  you  seen  her,  Lambert  ?"  I  broke  out 
at  last,  and  I  dreAV  him  aside  under  a^lump  of 
rees.  "  Have  you  seen  her  ?" 

I  did  not  name  her  name — what  need  to 
pronounce  it  ? 

"Yes ;  oh  yes,  I've  seen  her." 

"Lately?" 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


65 


"Lately,  and  before,  and  always.  I  may 
say;  at  least,  often." 

"  You  have  been  seeing  her — you  have  been 
meeting  her  all  this  time  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  off  and  on,  that  is.  When  I  could, 
and  where  I  could." 

Almost  a  cry  of  agony  and  anger  escaped 
from  my  lips.  All  this  time,  all  these  years, 
while  I  had  been  groping  in  the  desolation  of 
solitude  and  darkness,  he  had  known  of  her 
whereabouts,  had  watched  her,  and  spoken  with 
her,  and  been  familiar  with  her!  And  faith- 
fully served  her,  no  doubt!  I  suppose  the 
fierce  light  of  jealousy  and  anger  flamed  in  my 
eyes,  for  he  at  once  said,  gently  and  firmly : 

"  For  what  I  think  you  mean,  Mr.  Banks,  it 
was  little  good  to  me  to  see  her  and  speak  to 
her.  I  tell  you  honestly,  and  like  a  man,  I  did 
my  very  best  to  make  her  love  me ;  and  I 
couldn't  succeed.  I  tell  you,  too,  I  was  mean 
enough  to  try  to  serve  her  and  help  her  when 
she  wanted  help,  and  to  hope  to  work  on  her 
gratitude  in  that  way ;  and  it  was  of  no  use. 
She  told  me  so  at  last;  and  then  I  tried  to 
make  up  my  mind  as  a  man  to  be  her  friend, 
and  no  more ;  and  I  have  been  trying,  and  I 
think  I've  been  succeeding  even ;  and  I  fancy 
I'm  growing  better,  and  able  to  bear  it,  and  to 
think  of  her  only  as  a  friend.  Now  I'll  not 
deny  that  this  meeting  with  you,  and  bringing 
back  the  old  times,  and  talking  of  her  with  you, 
may  have  thrown  me  back  a  little.  But  I'll  get 
lip  again,  please  God,  and  get  over  it.  I'm  de- 
termined to  get  over  it,  and  to  be  satisfied  and 
happy  to  be  her  friend.  So  you  need  not  feel 
any  thing  like  anger  at  me.  I  have  done  you 
no  harm,  and  myself  no  good." 

Need  I  deny  that  a  glow  of  wild  and  futile 
delight  passed  through  me?  It  passed  soon 
away ;  Lambert's  ill  success  was  but  little  gain 
to  me. 

"  You  say  you  have  always  been  seeing  her ; 
where,  for  instance  ?" 

"  In  London,  here,  first  of  all ;  and  in  Paris, 
and  in  Milan,  and  in  Russia.  And  Paris  again, 
when  she  made  her  great  success  there.  And 
here,  the  other  day,  when  she  came  out  and 
carried  all  before  her.  J  was  there.  I  hoped 
to  be  able  to  throw  her  her  first  bouquet ;  but, 
good  Lord,  there  was  such  q,  shower  of  bouquets 
came  down  that  mine  must  have  been  lost 
among  them!" 

"One  word,  Lambert.  Did  she  never — did 
she  never  speak — of  me?" 

"Not  much;  very  little  indeed.  I  didn't 
ask.  her  any  questions.  I  didn't  know  how  you 
came  to  be  separated,  and  I  don't  know  now ; 
and  I  don't  ask  you,  either,  any  thing  about  it. 
I  tell  you,  however,  that  I  thought  badly  of  you 
at  first ;  but  afterward  I  thought  I  must  have 
done  you  wrong." 

"Why,  Lambert,  why?" 

"  Because,  from  some  words  she  once  let  fall, 
I  thought  she  had  made  up  her  mind  not  to  let 
any  thing  stand  between  her  and  success  on  the 
stage ;  and  I  thought — although  she  never  hinted 


such  a  thing  in  the  least — I  thought — well,  I 
don't  quite  like  to  say  it." 

"Speak  it  out,  man!  Nothing  that  can  be 
said  by  any  human  creature  can  hurt  me  more. '' 

"Well,  I  thought  that  she  had  thrown  you 
over. " 

"  So  she  did,  Lambert.  She  threw  me  over, 
as  you  say — she  left  me  suddenly.  I  never 
knew  why  ;  and  I  have  never  seen  her  since.  I 
ought  to  hate  her  and  curse  her,  and  I  can 
not." 

"  No,  no,  you  ought  not  to  hate  her.  I  don't 
understand  her— I  never  quite  could ;  but  if  I 
know  any  thing  about  her,  and  if  she  ever  loved 
any  one,  I  think  she  loved  you." 

"  Did  she  not  speak  of  me  lately — when  last 
she  was  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  did  ;  that  was,  indeed,  almost  the 
only  time.  I  went  to  see  her  up  in  Jermyn 
Street  just  the  day  before  she  left,  and  she 
asked  me  if  I  knew  that  you  were  living  in  Lon- 
don ;  and  of  course  I  didn't  know ;  how  could 
I  ?  London  is  the  grave  of  provincial  friend- 
ships." 

"Well,  and  she—" 

"She  told  me  you  were  living  in  London, 
and  that  she  believed  you  were  very  happy." 

"And  did  she  so  calmly,  so  readily  believe 
that  I  was  happy  ?  Did  she  cast  me  from  her 
mind  without  a  word  of  regret  ?" 

"  No,  not  without  a  word  of  regret ;  at  least, 
I  ought  not  to  say  regret,  perhaps,  for  she  said 
she  was  glad  that  you  were  happy." 

"O  God!" 

"And  she  said  I  might  perhaps  meet  you 
after  she  was  gone,  and,  if  I  did,  to  give  you 
her  remembrances  and  her  good  wishes." 

"  That  was  all  ?" 

"That  was  all — all  she  said,  at  least.  I 
know  what  I  thought  at  the  time." 

"Tell  me  what  you  thought.  Don't  spare 
me,  Lambert ;  tell  me  any  thing — all. " 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  what  I  thought.  I  saw 
how  pale  she  grew,  and  heard  how  her  voice 
quivered,  and  I  envied  you ;  for  I  thought, 
'  For  all  that's  come  and  gone,  whatever  is  the 
reason  of  the  separation,  she  thinks  of  him  and 
loves  him  still.'" 

"No,  Lambert,  you  are  mistaken;  you  do 
not  understand  her.  No,  she  never  loved  me 
— never.  She  never  cared  a  rush  for  me  com- 
pared with  her  ambition.  She  despises  me 
now  because  I  have  come  to  nothing  so  far. 
She  pities  me,  I  dare  say,  and  would  fling  me 
an  alms  if  she  might ;  but  she  rejoices  that  she 
had  the  good  sense  and  the  good  fortune  to  free 
herself  from  me." 

Lambert  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  quite  understand  her,"  he  said; 
"but  somehow  I  think  I  understand  her  better 
than  you  do.  I  know  well  enough  how  ambi- 
tious she  is,  and  fond  of  admiration  and  applause 
and  success,  and  all  that ;  and  how  proud  she 
is  of  having  pushed  her  way  up  and  up,  from 
being  a  po6*r  little  girl  unknown  to  be  the  star 
that  she  is.  I  don't  think  she  would  let  any 


66 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


thing  stand  in  the  way  of  her  success  much 
But  you  know  as  well  as  I  that  human  nature 
sounds  more  than  one  stop ;  and  hers  has  many 
And  I  think  there  is  much  love  in  her  heart  too 
as  I  know  there  is  much  friendship ;  and  I  don' 
believe  she  has  ever  forgotten  you  or  ceased  t( 
love  you.  There,  it  costs  me  something,  I  can 
tell  you,  to  speak  these  words,  and  I  shall  have 
to  smoke  away  very  fiercely  for  half  the  nigh 
to  get  over  this ;  but  I  think  it's  true.  I  don' 
know  that  it's  any  good  telling  you,  either ;  for, 
mind,  I  don't  say  that  it  could  come  to  any  thing 
now,  even  if  you  were  to  meet  her." 

"  No,  it  could  come  to  nothing.  Don't  think 
me^ an  idle  braggart  or  a  fool,  Lambert,  or  that 
I  am  talking  after  the  fashion  of  the  fox  and 
the  grapes ;  but  if  she  stood  there  and  held  out 
her  hand  to  me,  and — and — offered  to  marry 
rne,  I  would  turn  away  from  her  and  leave  her. 
I  would,  though  I  love  her  now  as  much  as  ever 
— ay,  far  more  than  ever." 

Lambert  again  shook  his  head,  and  smiled — 
a  melancholy  smile. 

"  No,  you  wouldn't,"  he  said.    "  If  she  stood 
at  the  other  side  of  that  pathway,  and  held  out 
her  hand  and  beckoned  you   to   come,  you'd 
come  if  all  the  promises  and  vows  and  venge- 
ances, and  saints  and  angels  and  devils,  held 
you  back.     I  know  that  /  would,  and  couldn't 
help  myself;  and  I  know  that  you  would  too." 
"It  will  never  be  tried,  Lambert." 
"No,  it  will  never  be  tried.     She  has  gone 
away  for  a  good  long  time.     She  told  me  that, 
no  matter  what  offers  she  might  get,  she  would 
not  come  to  London  next  season.     She  was 
thinking  of  going  to  the  States  and  South  Amer- 
ica ;  they  are  very  greedy  of  new  singers  now 
in  Brazil.     And  before  she  comes  back  we  don't 
know  what  may  have  happened." 
"  She  will  probably  marry." 
"Perhaps.     And  you  may  have  recovered, 
and  may  be  married  too." 

"  No ;  whatever  may  be  possible,  that  is  not. 
A  word  or  two  more,  Lambert.  Did  you  know 
of  any  one  who  seemed  likely  to  marry  her?" 

"Likely,  no;  would  have  liked  to  marry, 
yes.  No  doubt  the  number  of  candidates  will 
begin  to  increase  considerably  now." 

"  Ay,  I  dare  say  it  will.  Did  you  know  any 
Italian,  any  musical  man,  who  took  her  up  and 
helped  to  bring  her  out,  and  who  was  fond  of 
her  ?" 

"I  didn't  know  him;  but  she  often  told  me 
of  him.  It  was  he  to  whom  she  owes  much  of 
her  success ;  so  she  says,  at  least ;  but  I  don't 
think  much  of  that,  for  her  voice  and  her  tal- 
ents would  have  won  their  way  some  time  or 
other.  But  I  believe  he  made  the  way  very 
smooth  for  her  in  the  beginning,  and  quite  took 
her  under  his  care,  and  was  better  to  her  than 
many  brothers  or  fathers  could  have  been.  She 
always  speaks  of  him  with  great  regard ;  in 
fact,  with  a  sort  of  devotion." 

"  Was  he— is  he,  do  you  think,  in  love  with 
her?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Lambert,  slowly,  and 


speaking  rather  ruefully.      "Why  not  he  as 
well  as  you  and  I,  and  all  the  rest  of  us  ?" 

"  Do  you  think  that  she — " 

"  No,  I  don't.  I  know  what  you  were  going 
to  ask,  and  I  really  don't.  I  am  sure  she  is 
very  much  attached  to  him,  you  know,  and  all 
that ;  and  I  don't  say  that  if  she  were  to  marry 
for  any  thing  but  love  she  might  not  marry  him 
out  of  pure  gratitude.  But  when  I  spoke  to 
her  once  about  him  she  was  a  little  angry  at 
first,  and  said  I  ought  to  know  better;  and 
then  she  softened  and  smiled,  and  went  on  to 
say  that  in  any  case  his  heart  had  two  great 
Igves  already — music  and  Italian  revolution — 
and  there  w*as  no  place  left  in  it  for  any  woman." 

"  He  is  older  than  she  is  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  should  say  ten  or  a  dozen  years  at 
least.  But  that's  nothing,  you  know ;  he  is  not 
old  enough  to  be  her  father/' 

Lambert  had  a  painfully  direct  and  honest 
way  of  extinguishing  any  hope  which  he  might 
perchance  have  lighted.  I  winced  under  his 
last  few  simple  and  practical  words. 

Another  point  I  was  anxious  to  be  informed 
upon. 

"Tell  me,  Lambert,  do  you  know  any  body 
named  Lyndon,  who  knows  her  ?" 

"Lyndon,  the  member  for  Laceham,  the 
man  who  lives  over  in  Connaught  Place  there  ? 
Yes,  of  course  I  know  him ;  that  is,  I  know  all 
about  him.  In  fact,  I  know  him  in  the  way 
of  my  own  business,  and  I  have  heard  of  him 
through  her." 

"I  don't  mean  him,  though  I  am  interested 
in  knowing  something  about  him  too.  I  mean 
another  Lyndon  who  knows  her,  and  says  he 
helped  her  forward  at  the  beginning." 

(Christina's  name  had  never  once  been  men- 
tioned in  aur  conversation.  We  only  spoke  of 
her.} 

Lambert  shook  his  head. 

"No,  I  don't  know  any  other  Lyndon  but 
the  one ;  and  I  don't  like  him.  He  is  a  purse- 
:>roud,  self -conceited,  egotistic,  unscrupulous 
man.  He  has  all  the  proud  airs  of  a  born 
swell,  though  his  father,  I  hear,  made  his  money 
"n  the  pork  trade  at  the  time  of  the  French  war." 

"But  he  was,  and  is,  very  friendly  to  her?" 

"Yes,  he  was  and  is.  I  don't  like  his  friend- 
ship— I  suppose  it  is  because  I  don't  like  him; 
)ut  I  hate  to  hear  of  his  being  near  her." 

"Well,  that  is  not  the  man  I  mean.  The 
Lyndon  I  speak  of  helped  in  some  way,  or  says 

did,  to  introduce  her  first  to  the  Italian  you 
lave  told  me  of;  and  he  wrote  to  her  lately,  or 
>ays  he  did,  for  some  money,  and  she  sent  it." 

'  Oh,  that  fellow  ?  Yes,  there  is  such  a  fel- 
ow :  I  believe  he  did,  quite  in  a  chance  sort  of 
ray,  meet  her  long  ago,  and  he  was  a  sort  of 
nusical  jackal  whom  the  Italian  employed  to 
liscover  fresh  and  promising  voices  for  him ; 
ind  in  that  way  he  introduced  them.  Yes,  he 
[id  write  her  a  begging-letter  lately,  and  she 
ent  him  money — with  a  liberal  hand,  I  dare 
ay.  He  is  an  unfortunate  scoundrel,  I  believe.  • 
3ut  his  name  is  not  Lyndon." 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


67 


"He  told  me  it  was;  and  I  believe,  iu  that 
one  instance,  he  spoke  the  truth." 

"Perhaps  so.     But  it  certainly  is  not  the 
name  he  went  by — that  she  knew  him  by.     He 
is  a  sort  of  fellow  who  probably  has  a  whole  I 
stock  of  names,  a  perfect  assortment  to  choose  ' 
from." 

We  said  no  more  on  the  subject  then.  I 
walked  with  Lambert  to  St.  John's  Wood,  where 
he  lived.  A  beggar  would  have  been  interest- 
ing to  me  just  now  if  he  came  from  my  old 
home,  and  was  in  any  way  associated  with  my 
old  life ;  and  Ned  Lambert  I  had  always  liked 
since  the  time  of  our  memorable  battle  on  the 
strand,  that  dark  night  when,  falling  and  faint- 
ing, I  awoke  with  my  head  in  Christina's  lap. 
We  were,  somehow,  rowing  in  the  same  boat 
too,  and  were  no  longer  rivals.  Life  seemed 
brighter  for  me  now  that  I  had  met  him.  Since 
I  came  to  London,  seven  or  eight  years  ago,  I 
had  never  spoken  with  or  even  seen  any  one 
who  came  from  the  old  home.  That  whole 
passage  of  my  life  seemed  gone  and  dead.  A 
great  sea  had  risen  up  and  swallowed  the  green, 
delicious  island  under  whose  palm-trees  I  had 
sat  happy  and  idle  so  long.  It  was  a  strange 
delight  now,  on  this  hard  gray  shore,  to  meet 
at  length  with  one  who,  like  me,  was  once  a 
tenant  of  the  lost  home.  I  felt  that  I  must  be 
Lambert's  friend. 

His  manner  seemed  to  return  the  feeling. 
He  was  always  rather  a  diffident  sort  of  fellow, 
slow  of  speech,  and  he  had  not  much  changed 
in  that  respect.  Indeed,  I  noticed  one  pecul- 
iarity about  him  which  rather  added  to  his  nat- 
ural diffidence  and  slowness  of  speech.  He 
was  conscious  of  his  want  of  early  education, 
at  least  in  manner  and  speech,  and  he  was  al- 
ways on  the  watch  to  correct  any  error  of 
tongue,  or  to  prevent  himself  from  making  any. 
Therefore  he  pronounced  every  word  slowly  and 
cautiously,  somewhat  after  the  manner  of  a  for- 
eigner ,, feeling  his  way  into  our  language;  and 
he  lingered  with  a  slight  emphasis  over  words 
which  an  uneducated  man  would  be  likely  to 
pronounce  incorrectly,  as  if  in  order  to  leave  no 
doubt  that  he  was  pronouncing  them  correctly. 
Sometimes  he  went  a  little  wrong  in  an  aspirate 
or  an  "r,"  and  I  observed  that  when  he  did  so 
lie  always  went  back  deliberately  over  the  word 
and  said  it  correctly,  as  one  brings  a  horse  up 
to  a  fence  again  and  makes  him  go  clean  over 
it  when  he  has  failed  in  jumping  it  properly  the 
first  time.  He  was  always  fond  of  reading  and 
thinking ;  when  a  mere  young  carpenter  his 
stock  of  book-knowledge  seemed  wonderfully 
out  of  proportion  with  his  class  and  his  manner. 
Now  he  had  added  to  this,  and  doubtless  to  new 
stores  of^reading  gathered  since,  all  the  vast 
and  varied  experiences  accumulated  during 
travel  through  many  countries  by  a  keen,  ob- 
servant eye,  and  a  robust,  intelligent  mind.  I 
could  see  easily  enough  through  his  simple, 
modest  pi'ide  in  his  own  advancement  and  ex- 
periences. I  could  see  cleai'ly  that,  in  his  quiet, 
manly  way,  he  was  resolved  on  being  a  gentle- 


man in  appearance  and  manner,  as  he  surely 
was  in  mind,  and  that  he  was  training  himself 
for  the  task.  There  was  so  much  about  him 
that  was  strong  and  self-reliant,  that  this  little 
trait  of  weakness  or  vanity  was  a  softening, 
childlike  peculiarity  which  made  one  like  the 
man  all  the  better. 

Some  thought  of  this  kind  made  me  fancy 
that  it  would  rather  please  Lambert'  if  I  were 
to  make  a  slight  allusion  to  his  improved  posi- 
tion and  changed  appearance,  and  I  took  occa- 
sion to  remark  on  the  fact  of  my  not  having 
recognized  him  at  once  when  we  met. 

"Do  you  know,  Lambert,  that  I  was  rather 
in  a  cynical  and  fiercely-democratic  mood  when 
I  passed  you,  and  I  positively  scowled  at  you, 
believing  you  to  be  a  bloated  aristocrat  ?" 

"No;  did  you,  though?"  he  replied,  blush- 
ing over  his  dark  face  like  a  great  girl. 

"Positively  I  did.  Did  you  not  see  my 
scowl  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  did  notice  somebody  looking  rather 
sharply  and  oddly  at  me.  That  first  attracted 
my  attention.  Then  I  looked,  and  I  recognized 
you  at  once.  But  you  did  not  seem  to  know 
me,  or  to  be  inclined  to  recognize  me." 

"  How  could  I  recognize  you  at  once  ?  You 
have  grown  such  a  swell." 

"Have  I  really?  Did  I  really  look  at  all 
like — well,  like  what  people  call  a  gentleman  ? 
You  may  laugh  at  me  if  you  like  ;  but  I  should 
very  much  wish  you  to  tell  me  the  truth." 

"As  I  have  told  you,  I  scowled  at  you  as 
you  passed,  out  of  my  detestation  for  born  aris- 
tocrats. " 

"  Poor  born  aristocrats ! "  said  Lambert,  smil- 
ing, "their  privileges  of  birth  don't  seem  of 
much  use  when  fellows  like  me  could  be  mis- 
taken, even  for  a  moment,  for  one  of  them. 
Do  you  know  that  I  am  silly  enough  to  be 
gratified  when  you  tell  me  of  the  mistake,  al- 
though I  know  very  well  that  the  second  glance 
showed  you  what  an  error  it  was  ?  But  I  don't 
think  it's  any  shame  for  a  man  to  try  to  educate 
himself  in  manner,  and  I  am  always  trying  it. 
It  was  a  dreadful  task  at  first.  When  I  got  to 
know  a  few  people,  and  became  noticed  a  little 
as  a  man  who  had  some  new  notions  about  or- 
gan-building, and  all  that,  and  one  or  two  really 
great  musicians  were  very  kind  and  friendly  to 
me,  it  used  to  be  a  dreadful  trial  to  have  to  ob- 
serve how  people  came  into  a  room,  and  sat  and 
talked,  and  used  their  knives  and  forks  at  din- 
ner, and  drank  the  right  wine  out  of  the  right 
glass,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  The  first  time  I 
went  to  an  evening  party  in  a  white  tie  and  a 
dress-coat  was  an  agony,  I  can  tell  yoii.  And 
then  to  have  to  watch  one's  A's  and  rs  all  the 
time  did  so  intensify  the  misery.  For  a  long 
time  I  acquired  a  positive  reputation  for  sen- 
tentiousness  because  I  used  to  plan  out  little 
remarks  and  replies  which  should  say  as  much 
as  possible  in  the  fewest  words,  and  should  have 
none  of  the  dangerous  words  in  them.  I  am 
getting  better  now,  I  think.  But  to  this  hour 
I  am  afraid  of  that  cursed  letter  h ;  and  when 


C3 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


I  find  that  I  must  encounter  it,  I  fall  hack  and 
have  a  look  at  it  mentally  first,  so  as  to  be  quite 
sure  that  I  know  what  to  do  with  it.  Do  you 
know  that  I  feel  infinitely  more  happy  and  at 


my  ease  talking  French  on  the  Continent,  or 
with  foreigners  here,  than  speaking  English 
with  Englishmen  ?  Because,  you  know,  a  wrong 
accent,  or  even  a  slip  of  grammar,  isn't  any 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


G9 


thing  with  an  Englishman  speaking  French,  but 
it  does  so  stamp  an  Englishman  talking  English. 
And  I  am  so  conscious  of  my  own  defects. " 

"Ear  too  conscious,  Lambert;  never  mind 
your  defects.  It  may  comfort  you  to  hear  that 
I  know  a  man,  a  literary  man  and  a  scholar, 
too — to  be  sure,  he  is  an  Irishman — who  says 
that  he  never  yet  met  or  heard  an  Englishman 
who  did  not,  some  time  or  other,  go  wrong  with 
his  h,  or  sound  an  r  where  the  cynical  letter  had 
no  business  to  come." 

"Ah,  but  there  are  degrees.  There's  an  al- 
most imperceptible  lapse  made  once  in  a  twelve- 
month, and  there's  a  blunder  that  would  be 
always  coming  out  if  one  didn't  keep  close 
watch  over  it.  No ;  you  don't  know  what  it  is 
never  to  have  been  at  school,  never  to  have 
been  taught  when  young  how  to  pronounce  a 
word,  or  enter  a  room,  or  properly  handle  a 
knife  and  fork.  Teaching  one's  self  Latin,  or 
even  Greek,  is  comparatively  easy — I've  done 
something  that  way ;  but  studying  the  ways  of 
polite  society  alone  out  of  a  printed  book  of 
etiquette  is  cruel  work ; "  and  Lambert  laughed 
genially. 

"  Then  you  shall  teach  it  all  to  me,  Lambert, 
now  that  you  have  mastered  the  art,  for  I  fear 
I  never  could  grapple  with  it  alone." 

"  No ;  you  don't  want  it.  With  you  it's  quite 
different,  for  you  have  been  at  school,  and  you 
have  always  been  mixing  with  people.  You 
have  no  idea  how  different  is  the  case  of  a  fel- 
low who  goes  into  any  thing  like  society  for  the 
first  time,  and  finds  himself  new  to  the  very 
clothes  he  wears,  not  to  speak  of  the  ways  of 
the  people  he  meets.  I  wonder  a  man  ever  has 
the  perseverance  to  go  through  with  it.  Many 
a  time  I  thought  it  really  was  not  worth  the 
labor  and  trouble.  But  I  suppose  it's  some- 
thing like  cigar-smoking — it's  sickening  at  first, 
and  it  takes  a  long  practice  before  one  can  get 
quite  used  to  it  and  enjoy  it ;  but  at  last  one 
suddenly  finds  he  can't  do  without  it." 

Talking  this  way  we  reached  pleasant  St. 
John's  Wood,  and  the  house  in  which  Lam- 
bert lived.  It  was  a  pretty,  fantastic  little 
house,  one  of  a  terrace  which  stood  upon  the 
sort  of  almost  imperceptible  rise  that  in  the 
suburbs  of  London  men  call  a  hill.  Lambert 
had  the  first-floor  of  the  house,  and  enjoyed  a 
very  pretty  view  over  the  outskirts  of  London  ; 
the  windows  being  so  placed  as  not  to  overlook 
the  vast  cluster  of  streets  and  spires  and  domes, 
fog-surmounted,  which  lay  below.  Looking 
from  the  room,  one  might  at  times  catch  faint, 
hazy  glimpses  of  something  like  the  country. 
Elowers  in  profusion  grew  on  the  patches  of 
garden  in  front  and  back  of  the  house  ;  trailing 
plants  fell  from  eaves  to  basement.  It  was  al- 
together a  very  pleasant,  gracious,  and  tempt- 
ing place,  and  I  thought  Lambert  might  well 
feel  glad  to  return  to  such  a  nest  every  evening 
from  the  town. 

The  rooms  were  neatly  furnished ;  for  the 
most  part,  of  course,  the  regular  furniture — 
chimney-glass,  ornaments,  pictures — of  suburb- 


an lodgings  in  London.  But  there  was  a  small 
organ,  hardly  bigger  than  a  piano,  of  my  friend's 
own  design  and  construction,  with  some  of  his 
special  and  newest  improvements ;  and  there 
were  some  clever  specimens  of  wood-carving, 
which  he  made  a  frequent  recreation,  he  told 
me ;  and  there  were  books  of  his  own — books 
on  carving,  on  music,  on  science,  Greek  Lexi- 
cons and  class-books;  and  there  was  a  photo- 
graph over  the  chimney-piece  which  caught  my 
eye  the  moment  I  went  into  the  room :  it  was 
that  of  Christina. 

Lambert  took  a  book — a  sort  of  scrap-book, 
apparently — out  of  a  drawer  of  his  writing-desk, 
and,  turning  hastily  over  its  leaves,  called  my 
attention  to  it. 

"Critiques  of  Aer,"  he  said;  "I  used  to 
watch  for  them  in  the  papers,  and  cut  them  out 
and  paste  them  in." 

Yes ;  there  were  criticisms  of  her  perform- 
ances from  the  Moniteur,  and  the  Debuts,  and 
the  Independence  Beige,  and  the  'National- Zei- 
tung  of  Berlin,  and  the  Ost-Deutsche  Post  of 
Vienna,  the  Pungolo  of  Milan,  the  Osservatore 
of  Eome,  the  Opinions  of  Turin,  the  Courrier 
Russe,  the  Times,  the  Morning  Chronicle  (there 
was  a  Morning  Chronicle  then),  .the  Morning 
Post,  and  I  know  not  what  other  papers.  I 
glanced  over  them.  Often,  indeed,  the  letters 
danced  and  flickered  before  my  eyes.  I  read 
them  Avith  amazement,  with  pride,  with  delight 
— ah,  and  with  selfish  shame  and  pain  as  well ! 
They  differed  as  to  minor  points  of  criticism — 
some  extolling  as  a  special  charm  what  others 
deprecated  as  the  one  sole  defect ;  some  declar- 
ing that  the  voice  was  incomparable,  but  the 
singer  had  yet  much  to  learn;  others  insisting 
that  the  skill  of  the  musician  conquered  some 
vocal  defects ;  others,  again,  leaning  more  on 
the  acting  than  on  the  singing.  But  all  rang 
to  the  one  grand  chime  —  success.  In  Berlin 
the  students  of  the  university  had  a  serenade 
by  torch-light  in  honor  of  their  gifted  country- 
woman ;  in  enthusiastic  and  music-mad  St. 
Petersburg  the  singer  was  presented,  on  the  oc- 
casion of  her  last  performance,  with  a  coronet 
of  gold  and  a  diamond  brooch.  So  on.  It 
was  simply  success.  Christina  had  succeeded. 

I  put  the  book  away,  and  sat  thinking  and 
silent  for  a  few  moments.  The  whole  thing 
was  unreal  to  me ;  I  was  as  one  who  dreams. 
Only  the  other  day  it  seemed  when  she  called  to 
me  a  farewell  from  her  window,  and  the  flower 
she  had  worn  in  her  bosom  fell  on  the  pavement 
at  my  feet. 

I  rose  and  went  to  the  chimney-piece,  and 
looked  calmly  at  her  portrait.  She  had  de- 
veloped, but  not  much  changed.  The  photo- 
graph made  her  look  a  little  older,  perhaps,  than 
I  could  have  expected ;  but  most  photographs 
have  that  sort  of  effect.  She  was  certainly 
very  beautiful,  and  of  a  beauty  which  was  in 
no  sense  commonplace.  In  a  portrait-gallery 
filled  with  the  pictures  of  handsome  women- 
most  of  them  even  of  handsomer  women — one 
must,  I  thought,  be  attracted  at  once  by  that 


70 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


striking  fa«e,  with  its  fleece  of  fair  hair  and 
its  eyes  so  large  and  dark,  and  the  singular  soft- 
ness and  sweetness — almost  a  sensuous  sweet- 
ness— of  the  expression  on  the  lips  and  the  out- 
lines of  cheek  and  chin,  contrasting  as  strange- 
ly as  did  the  hue  of  the  hair  and  eyes  with  the 
energy  and  decision  which  the  forehead  and 
brows  expressed. 

I  looked  at  it  long  and  silently,  compressing 
my  lips  the  while,  and-  crushing,  with  such  force 
of  self-control  as  I  could  command,  all  rising 
emotion  down  into  obedience.  But  I  might 
have  allowed  my  feelings  their  full  sway  with- 
out fear  of  observation,  for  Lambert  had  quiet- 
ly left  the  room  the  moment  he  saw  me  ap- 
proach the  photograph.  He  did  not  return  for 
some  minutes.  I  conjectured  that  he  would 
not  return,  in  fact,  until  I  had  given  some  aud- 
ible intimation  that  I  needed  no  longer  to  be 
alone.  I  sat  down  and  played  a  few  random 
chords  on  his  organ.  He  presently  came  in, 
looking  animated  and  cheerful,  and  told  me  he 
must  apologize  for  having  left  me,  but  that  he 
had  been  compelled  to  have  a  long  and  pro- 
found consultation  with  his  landlady  on  the  sub- 
ject of  dinner.  Dinner  came  at  last,  and  we 
drank  some  -wine,  and  became  very  talkative 
and  cordial  and  friendly.  By  a  sort  of  silent 
agreement  we  avoided  all  reference  to  past 
times,  and  said  no  more  of  her. 

After  dinner  we  opened  the  windows,  lighted 
cigars,  and  smoked.  Lambert  told  me,  with 
the  innocent,  boyish  pride  which  was  rather 
an  attractive  part  of  his  character,  that  he  was 
the  only  lodger  ever  allowed  to  smoke  in  that 
sacred  room ;  that  the  landlady,  a  most  re- 
spectable old  lady,  positively  insisted  that  he 
must  have  his  cigar  there  whenever  he  pleased ; 
and  that,  whenever  he  was  leaving  the  place 
for  good,  he  meant  to  present  her  with  a  set  of 
entirely  new  curtains. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  any  use  my  giving  them  be- 
fore," he  added;  "I  should  only  spoil  them, 
and  she  would  benefit  nothing  by  the  transac- 
tion." 

The  evening  was  calm  and  sultry,  as  we  sat 
quietly  smoking.  Presently  I  saw  Lambert 
get  up  and  grasp  the  collar  of  his  coat  with  one 
hand,  while  he  looked  inquiringly  at  me. 

"Would  you  mind,"  he  asked,  "if  I  were 
to — "  and  he  stopped. 

"  Mind  Avhat  ?"  I  asked  in  my  turn,  not  hav- 
ing the  least  idea  of  what  he  meant. 

"Well,  just  to  pull  off  my  coat,  you  know. 
It's  very  hot  this  evening,  and  the  fact  is  I 
haven't  got  rid  of  all  the  old  ways  yet,  It 
does  seem  so  pleasant  still  to  sit  of  a  Sunday 
evening  in  one's  shirt-sleeves.  I  am  gradually 
breaking  myself  of  the  fashion ;  bnt  just  now 
I  begin  to  feel  so  very  comfortable  that,  if  you 
really  didn't  mind,  and  wouldn't  be  at  all  of- 
fended—  I  have  a  dressing-gown,  you  know, 
and  rather  a  handsome  one  ;  but  still  it  isn't 
quite  the  same  thing,  just  yet." 

I  could  not  help  laughing ;  but  he  was  quite 
grave  and  earnest. 


"  Sit  in  your  shirt-sleeves,  by  all  means, 
Lambert,  if  it  makes  you  comfortable,"  I  said. 
"My  poor  father  was  a  boat-builder,  as  you 
know,  in  his  best  days,  and  he  always  used  to 
like  to  sit  in  his  shirt- sleeves  of  a  Sunday  even- 
ing; but  I  think  my  mother  discouraged  and 
finally  abolished  the  practice  in  him,  and  she 
never  allowed  me  even  to  attempt  it.  There- 
fore I  have  an  enjoyment  the  less,  you  see,  and 
I  rather  envy  you  your  additional  comfort." 

So  Lambert  pulled  off  his  coat,  and  lay  with 
his  lithe,  long,  manly  figure  back  in  his  arm- 
chair, and  chatted  with  additional  freedom  and 
fluency  all  the  evening. 

The  night  passed  pleasantly,  and  it  was  time 
for  me  to  go.  Ned  insisted  on  walking  part  of 
the  way  with  me,  and  did  in  fact  walk  near- 
ly all  the  way.  We  made  arrangements,  of 
course,  to  meet  again,  and  meet  often.  He  in- 
quired gently  and  cautiously  into  my  prospects, 
and  hinted  in  the  most  delicate  manner  that  he 
might  perhaps  be  able  to  give  me  some  advice, 
or  to  make  me  acquainted  with  somebody  whose 
advice  would  be  better  than  his.  I  opened  to 
him  freely  whatever  plans,  prospects,  and  hopes 
I  had. 

"One  thing,"  I  said,  "I  am  resolved  on, 
Lambert.  I  will  make  a  way  and  a  place  for 
myself,  and  in  opera.  I  will  be  a  primo  tenore 
one  day ;  I  will  sing  with  her,  and  she  shall  ac- 
knowledge that  I  have  something  in  me ;  or  I 
will  find  a  way  of  dying,  if  it  has  to  be  by  a  plunge 
from  Waterloo  Bridge."  We  shook  hands  and 
separated. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE    HEAVY   FATHER'S    MISTAKE. 

MY  parting  words  to  Lambert  expressed  not 
too  strongly  a  resolution  which  had  grown  up 
in  my  mind.  I  was  resolved  to  slave,  and 
strive,  and  wear  myself  out,  if  need  be,  in  or- 
der to  qualify  myself  for  success  in  opera,  that 
I  might  once  sing  with  her,  perhaps  on  equal 
terms.  All  other  objects  in  life  seemed  to  be 
as  nothing  compared  with  that — thus  to  tri- 
umph, thus  to  prove  myself  not  unworthy  of  the 
opinion  she  once  held  of  me — and  then  come 
what  might ! 

Strangely  enough,  this  determination  was  not 
inspire^!  by  any  hope  that  we  might  fulfill  the 
other  part  of  our  early  dreams,  and  be  married. 
I  do  not  think  such  a  hope  ever  entered  into 
my  ambition  and  my  resolve.  She  did  not  love 
me ;  it  was  only  too  evident  that  she  could  not 
reallv  have  loved  me  at  any  time  as  I  would 
have  been  loved ;  and  even  were  it  probable 
or  possible  that  the  far-off  date  of  my  success 
could  find  her  still  unmarried,  I  was  too  proud 
to  think  of  courting  the  love  of  one  who  had 
flung  me  thus  away,  and  left  me  to  my  loneli- 
ness and  my  misery.  No,  passionate  as  was 
my  futile  love  for  her,  it  was  not  that  which 
now  influenced  me  to  my  determination  and 
my  hopes.  It  was  the  absorbing  desire  to 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


71 


prove  myself  not  unworthy,  not  all  a  failure. 
To  wring  that  compensation  from  Fate  was 
now  my  one  sole  object  in  life. 

And  if  I  should  fail  ? 

Well,  I  was  no  idiot,  and  I  thought  of  that. 
The  most  passionate  aspiration  can  not  conquer 
success,  nor  is  it  evidence  of  capacity  for  suc- 
cess, unless  when  it  comes  as  a  mere  instinct 
of  the  nature,  like  the  desire  of  the  water-fowl 
for  the  pool,  of  the  young  eagle  for  the  flight. 
I  therefore  laid  little  stress  on  my  own  mere 
aspirations,  knowing  well  how  greatly  they 
were  stimulated  by  my  love  and  my  wounded 
pride.  So  I  contemplated  coolly  the  possibil- 
ity, the  chance,  of  utter  failure,  and  I  resolved 
upon  my  course.  Once  let  it  be  certain,  let  it  be 
beyond  all  doubt — and  I  felt  convinced  I  could 
judge  my  own  cause  impartially  and  rightly — 
that  I  was  a  failure,  and  I  would  withdraw  in- 
stantly and  forever  from  these  countries,  change 
my  name,  bury  myself  in  some  remote  western 
region  of  America,  and  live  there,  a  hewer  of 
wood  and  drawer  of  water,  till  my  life  should 
come  to  an  end. 

I  have  said  thus  much  in  explanation  of  the 
resolute  energy  with  which  I  now  went  to  work 
at  musical  training,  and  at  saving  up  money 
with  which  to  go  to  Italy  and  improve  myself, 
and  begin  a  career  there  which  I  hoped  might 
wake  an  echo  in  England.  My  friend  Lam- 
bert entered  quietly,  earnestly  into  all  my 
plans,  calmly  assuming  my  perseverance  and 
my  success  as  a  matter  of  course ;  and  he  lent 
me  valuable  assistance  by  advice  and  sugges- 
tion. Lilla,  too,  was  in  our  full  confidence, 
and  was  quite  delighted  with  the  project,  fre- 
quently reminding  me  of  the  magnificent  day 
at  the  Derby  she  was  to  have  the  first  season 
of  my  London  success.  Weeks  and  months 
went  on,  and  I  began  at  last  to  see  Italy  in 
the  near  fore-ground  of  my  hopes. 

Before  I  proceed  to  sum  up  in  a  few  lines 
one  tolerably  long  chapter  of  my  life — a  chap- 
ter as  quiet  and  uneventful  to  tell  of  as  it  was 
to  me  momentous — I  must  relate  two  incidents. 

I  went  very  often  to  see  Ned  Lambert ;  he 
very  often  came  to  see  me.  He  made  himself 
very  friendly  and  familiar  with  Lilla  and  her 
mother.  He  would  sit  for  hours  listening  to 
the  poor  old  woman  telling  him  of  her  trials 
and  her  disappointments,  her  feats  of  cooking, 
her  new  and  incomparable  methods  of  applying 
sauce  and  preserving  peaches,  Lilla's  sicknesses 
and  Lilla's  charms.  I  don't  believe  there  was  an 
ailment  Lilla  had  had,  from  her  first  "  thrush" 
to  her  latest  toothache,  of  which  Edward  Lam- 
bert did  not  hear  many  times,  and  seemingly 
Avith  profoundest  interest,  the  full  details.  Lil- 
la herself  used  to  grow  dreadfully  impatient  un- 
der these  narratives,  and  I  observed,  not  with- 
out curiosity  and  interest,  that  she  was  far  less 
enduring  now  than  she  used  to  be  when  I  was 
the  spell-bound  victim. 

Often,  therefore — indeed,  whenever  I  could 
— I  intercepted  Mrs.  Lyndon,  flung  myself  in 
her  path,  and  engaged  her  in  colloquial  battle, 


in  order  that  Lambert  might  be  saved,  and 
that  he  might,  if  he  liked,  have  all  the  time 
with  Lilla  to  himself.  I  thought  his  eyes  rest- 
ed sometimes  fixedly  and  tenderly  on  her  when 
he  was  not  near  her,  with  an  expression  as  if 
he  would  gladly  be  beside  her ;  and  I  was  quite 
willing  to  give  him  the  full  opportunity,  so  far 
as  I  could  bring  it  about.  Soon,  too,  I  began 
to  observe  that  Mrs.  Lyndon  watched  with 
somewhat  uneasy  glances  when  these  twain 
talked  too  closely  and  too  long  together,  and 
that  the  pleasure  of  expatiating  to  an  unresist- 
ing, patient  listener  like  myself  lost  some  of 
its  charm  under  such  circumstances.  These 
were  symptoms,  omens  perhaps,  not  to  be  over- 
looked. 

One  fine  starry  night  of  winter,  when  the 
hardened  snow  gleamed  glassy  on  the  ground, 
and  the  lighted  clock  of  Chelsea  Hospital  show- 
ed brightly  through  the  clear  and  rarefied  air. 
I  walked  part  of  the  way  home  with  Lambert 
from  our  quarter  by  the  Thames.  He  was  un- 
usually silqnt  for  a  while,  then  suddenly  said: 

"I  say,  Temple"  (he  had  got  into  the  way 
now  of  calling  me  Temple,  and  not  Banks), 
"  what  a  very  pretty  girl  your  friend  Miss  Lyn- 
don is !" 

"Very  pretty,  and  very  clever,  and  very 
good." 

"  Yes,  she  seems  a  sort  of  girl  that  could  un- 
derstand a  fellow,  and  help  him  to  think,  and 
bring  him  out.  Do  you  know,  I  talked  to  her 
just  now  of  some  new  ideas  I  have  got — good 
ideas,  I  think ;  in  my  3wn  line,  of  course — and 
she  listened  to  me  all  the  time,  and  quite  un- 
derstood it  all  and  cared  about  it.  I  know  she 
did  by  the  questions  she  asked.  Never  mind 
the  answers  a  girl  gives.  I  don't;  they're  no 
test.  Some  girls  will  know  by  the  mere  ex- 
pression of  your  face,  if  they  haven't  even  been 
listening  to  a  word,  what  kind  of  answers  they 
ought  to  give.  But  the  questions — if  they  ven- 
ture upon  questions — that's  the  real  test.  You 
can't  mistake,  if  you  have  a  question  asked. 
You  know  at  once  just  how  far  she  has  gone 
with  you,  and  how  far  she  is  able  to  go.  Well, 
Sir,  that  girl  asked  me  one  or  two  questions 
that  showed  she  had  got  rather  ahead  of  me. 
She  did  indeed.  I'm  rather  a  slow  fellow,  and 
she  seemed  to  make  a  short-cut — to  cut  off  the 
angle,  you  know,  and  get  to  the  end  directly. 
It  must  be  very  pleasant,"  he  added,  with  a 
sort  of  half  sigh,  "  to  have  a  woman  for  a  friend 
— for  a  friend — who  can  understand  one  in  that 
ready  sort  of  way." 

Was  the  inconsolable  becoming  consoled  ? 

"It  must  be  very  pleasant,  Lambert,"  I  an- 
swered, in  deep  earnestness.  "  It  is  a  pleasure 
some  of  us  must  go  without,  and  go  darkling 
through  life  for  want  of  it." 

"She  does  not  seem  very  happy  there,  I 
think,"  he  remarked,  with  a  nod  of  his  head 
in  the  direction  we  had  left. 

"No.     They  are,  as  you  know,  very  poor." 

"Yes.  If  ever  I  marry,  it  shall  be  some 
poor  girl,  who  will  have  no  fortune  to  throw 


72 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER 


in  my  face,  but  will  owe  all  to  me.     I  hate  th 
idea  of  benefiting  by  one's  wife.     I'd  like  to 
make  my  way  in  the  world  myself,  and  bring 
her  along  with  me ;  and  you  know  I  have  no 
been  doing  badly  so  far." 

"Lilla  and  her  mother  have  both  been  very 
kind  and  good  to  me.     I  only  wish  I  had  any 
way  of  proving  mv  friendship  and  gratitude." 
"Is  there  not  a  ready  and  suitable  way?" 
"  Is  there  ?     If  there  is,  I  don't  know  it." 
"  Marry  Lilla."     He  brought  out  the  words 
very  slowly. 

"My  dear  fellow,  you  don't  know  what  you 
are  talking  about." 

"  Yes,  I  do ;  I  quite  understand  why  you 
can  not  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"No,  you  don't;  at  least,  you  only  know 
part  of  the  reason.  If  I  had  never  met  an- 
other woman  I  should  not  wish  to  marry  Lilla 
Lyndon.  I  am  very  fond  of  her,  Lambert,  and 
have  good  reason  to  be;  but  not  in  that  way. 
My  feeling  in  the  matter,  however,  is  not  much 
to  the  purpose.  Something  a  good  deal  more 
to  the  point  is  that  Lilla  Lyndon  would  not 
marry  me." 

"Do  you  think  not?  Now  I  have  often 
thought — " 

"  Because  you  don't  know.  To  begin  with, 
my  prospects  are  all  too  cloudy,  and  I  am  far 
too  poor.  Lilla  Lyndon  does  not  pretend  to  be 
a  heroine,  and  I  don't  believe  she  could  be  hap- 
py in  poverty.  She  must  marry  somebody  who 
can  make  her  mother  and  herself  comfortable, 
or  more  than  merely  comfortable ;  and  I  don't 
blame  her  for  it." 

"Yet  I  don't  think — I  am  sure  I  am  right — 
that  she  would  marry  for  money.  I  think  there 
is  something  better  in  her." 

"And  so  do  I  of  late.  I  don't  believe  now 
that  she  would  marry  for  money ;  but  I  don't 
think  she  would  go  into  married  poverty — love 
in  a  garret,  and  that  kind  of  thing.  And  I  say 
again  I  don't  blame'  her.  Some  people  can  do 
it,  and  others  can't.  Let  us  all  try  to  under- 
stand ourselves  and  our  capacities.  One  per- 
son can  stand  the  night-air  without  catching 
cold,  and  another  can  not;  but  there  are 
some  who  run  the  risk  which  they  might  have 
avoided,  and  do  catch  cold,  and  are  moping 
and  cross  about  it  for  weeks  after.  Others 
know  they  can  not  stand  it,  and  take  care 
not  to  try;  and  they  are  wise.  Now,  I  sup- 
pose there  are  plenty  of  girls  Avho  have  just 
courage  enough  to  take  the  plunge,  but  not 
courage  to  bear  the  consequences  without  re- 
gret and  lamentation.  I  think  Lilla  Lyndon 
knows  that  she  has  had  enough  of  poverty  in 
her  domestic  life,  and  she  has  sense  enough  to 
caution  her  against  risking  any  more  of  it.  She 
is  not  fit  for  the  kind  of  life  she  leads,  and  I 
think  it  has  gone  near  to  spoiling  her.  A  very 
little  of  a  better4  sort  of  existence  would  soon 
lift  her  quite  out  of  the  contamination  of  this." 
"So  it  would,"  said  Lambert,  eagerly.  He 
had  been  listening  with  rather  a  depressed  air 
to  my  exordium  against  poverty. 


"The  fact  is,  Lambert,  they  talk  dreadful 
rubbish  about  the  blessings  of  poverty.  It  is 
all  very  well  for  preachers  and  philosophers  to 
try  to  gammon  people  into  making  the  best  of  a 
bad  lot ;  but  there  is  a  sort  of  poverty  which 
does  nothing  but  degrade.  All  Lilla  Lyndon 
wants,  to  be  just  as  good  a  girl  as  ever  lived,  is 
a  certain  income,  and  ease,  and  no  debts." 

Lambert  brightened,  I  thought,  under  these 
words.  The  fact  is,  I  began  to  perceive  that 
I  had  been  producing,  unconsciously,  quite  a 
wrong  impression.  When  I  was  lecturing  on 
the  evils  of  poverty,  I  only  meant  to  show  him 
how  certain  little  levities  and  defects  had  prob- 
ably arisen  in  Lilla's  character,  and  thus  to  en- 
courage him  to  pay  court  to  her,  if  he  felt  so 
inclined.  To  me  he  appeared  quite  a  rising 
and  prosperous  man,  and  every  word  I  used  as 
an  argument  against  Lilla's  marrying  into  pov- 
erty was  meant  as  a  reason  why  she  ought  to 
marry  him.  I  was  fast  turning  match-maker 
out  of  interest  in  both  my  friends.  But  Lam- 
bert at  first  thought  I  was  arguing  against  the 
prudence  of  any  body  thinking  of  such  a  girl  as 
Lilla  unless  he  was  a  man  of  fortune,  and  his 
countenance,  transparently  expressive,  became 
clouded.  It  cleared  again  as  he  said  : 

"  Then  you  don't  think  she  would  care  about 
a  man  only  if  he  was  a  swell,  and  had  plenty 
of  money,  and  a  house  in  the  West  End,  like 
her  uncle,  and  all  that  ?" 

"No  ;  I  think  she  is  too  sensible  and  spirited 
a  girl  to  throw  away  a  chance  of  real  happiness 
for  dreams." 

"  You  see,  Temple,  it's  this  way  with  me.  I 
uppose  a  man  can't  always  live  alone.  At 
least,  I  think  now  he  can't ;  I  used  to  fancy 
it  would  be  my  fate,  and  that  it  was  the  only 
thing  I  could  endure  under— in  fact,  under  the 
circumstances,  you  know.  Now,  somehow,  I 
don't  think  so,  since  I've  seen  that  girl's  bright 
Tace,  and  heard  her  pleasant  laugh.  And  I 
think  there's  something  in  her  too — I  know  it. 
[  don't  think  I've  fallen  in  love  with  her  ;  per- 
laps  I've  passed  the  age  for  that  sort  of  thing, 
and  I've  knocked  about  a  good  deal,  and  I'm 
not  far  off  thirty  years  old.  But  J  do  like  to 

near  her,  and  to  hear  her  talk ;  and  I  think 
she  could  brighten  a  man's  life  very  much. 
Then  I'm  getting  on  very  well — for  a  fellow 
ike  me,  that  is,  who  came  up  from  nothing; 
and  if  things  don't  take  a  wonderfully  bad  turn, 
[  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  soon  be  able  to  keep 
my  wife  quite  like  a  lady — and  Lilla  Lyndon 
would  look  like  a  lady  too,  and  take  the  shine 
out  of  some  of  the  West  Enders,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  I  wish  you  good  luck  and 
Grod-speed  with  all  my  heart. " 

"Yes,  that's  all  very  fine,  but  we  mustn't  go 
:oo  fast ;  I  haven't  the  faintest  reason  to  know 
:hat  she  would  listen  to  a  word  of  the  kind." 

"Nor  I;  but  I  don't  know  any  reason  why 
she  shouldn't." 

"Don't  you  know  any  reason ?" 

"Not  I.     How  should  I?" 

"  Unless  that,  perhaps — she  knows  you  a  long 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER 


73 


time,  you  see.  and  you  have  been  a  good  deal 
together,  almost  like  brother  and  sister." 

"Exactly,  Ned;  there  it  is  —  we  are  very 
much  like  brother  and  sister,  and  never  could 
or  would  be  like  any  thing  else.  Lilla  Lyndon 
has  not  a  friend  on  earth  who  thinks  more  of 
her  than  I  do,  and  I'm  sure  I  have  no  friend 
more  warm  and  true  than  she — no  friend,  in- 
deed, half  so  warm  and  true.  And  that  is  all ; 
and  if  Lilla  should  marry  you,  old  fellow,  which 
I  sincerely  hope,  she  and  I  will  be  just  the  same 
fast  friends  as  ever,  please  God." 

We  parted  without  many  more  words — with- 
out any  more  Avords,  indeed,  upon  this  subject. 
But  it  seemed  clear  enough  to  me  how  things 
would  tend.  Of  Lilla's  feelings  on  the  subject 
I  could  guess  nothing  as  yet ;  but  I  thought  it 
would  not  be  difficult  soon  to  know  all ;  and 
meanwhile  I  could  see  no  reason  why  she  should 
not  love  this  handsome,  manly,  simple,  success- 
ful fellow. 

As  for  him,  I  envied  him,  because  he  could 
love  and  hope.  The  whole  thing  gave  me  sin- 
cere pleasure,  and  yet  a  queer,  selfish  shade  of 
sadness  fell  on  me,  too,  as  I  walked  home  alone. 
I  could  not  help  thinking  somewhat  grimly  that 
my  condition  resembled  a  little  that  of  a  man 
on  board  a  disabled  and  sinking  ship,  who  sees 
the  last  of  his  friends  safely  received  in  the  boat 
which  has  no  room  left  for  him. 

That  was  one  of  the  incidents  I  had  to  relate 
before  leaping  over  a  few  chapters  of  my  life, 
because  it  serves  to  foreshadow  and  explain 
what  happened  duril%  the  interval.  Another 
incident,  seemingly  unconnected  with  this,  must 
be  told  about  the  same  time,  as  it  tended  to- 
ward the  same  end. 

One  day  I  had  made  an  appointment  with 
Ned  Lambert  in  town.  We  were  to  meet  at 
half  past  four  o'clock,  and  we  had  fixed  on 
Palace  Yard  as  a  convenient  rendezvous.  It 
was  a  fine  frosty  evening  in  late  February,  and 
the  cheery  sunbeams  were  falling  lovingly  on 
the  Abbey  and  on  the  gilded  pinnacles  of  the 
Clock-Tower.  Palace  Yard  was  full  of  bustle 
and  life ;  carriages  and  cabs  were  driving  up 
every  moment  and  depositing  members,  to  make 
way  for  whom  policemen  kept  scurrying  here 
and  there,  and  driving  back  the  ever-encroach- 
ing rows  of  people  who  flanked  the  entrance  to 
the  great  old  Hall.  I  was  somewhat  too  soon 
for  my  appointment,  and  I  knew  that  Lambert 
would  make  his  appearance  precisely  as  the 
clock  chimed  the  half  hour  —  not  a  minute 
sooner,  not  a  minute  later.  So  I  too  fell  into 
the  crowd,  and  occupied  myself  in  watching 
the  senators  as  they  rode  or  drove  up,  and  think- 
ing what  a  very  fine  thing  it  must  be  to  be  one 
of  a  body  of  personages  so  high  and  mighty 
that  crowds  gathered  to  see  you  go  to  your 
work,  and  that,  even  though  you  only  came  up 
in  a  hansom  cab,  a  policeman  rushed  to  clear 
the  way,  that  your  august  feet  might  tread  an 
unimpeded  pavement.  Presently,  however,  my 
eyes  rested  on  a  figure  in  the  little  rank  of  spec- 
tators just  before  my  own,  the  sight  of  which 


was  quite  enough  to  make  me  fall  back  pre- 
cipitately. 

It  was  Lyndon — the  wrong  Lyndon,  the  prod- 
igal son,  the  outlaw.  He  was  dressed  with  what 
I  can  not  help  calling  studied  and  artistic  pov- 
erty. His  hat  was  rusty  in  hue ;  his  coat  was 
all  threadbare,  and  in  one  or  two  places  actu- 
ally torn ;  but  both  were  brushed  with  elaborate 
care.  He  had  black  gloves  on,  which  were 
gone  in  the  fingers ;  his  trowsers  were  strapped 
down  carefully.  Looking  at  him  from  a  pure- 
ly dramatic  point  of  view,  I  should  say  his  ap- 
pearance expressed  Honest  Poverty  in  the  per- 
son of  a  Heavy  Father. 

The  moment  I  saw  him  I  was  convinced  some- 
thing was  "  up ;"  and  I  drew  back  to  avoid  be- 
ing seen  by  his  peering  black  eyes.  I  could 
observe,  however,  that  he  kept  always  glancing 
up  toward  the  Parliament  Street  end  of  Palace 
Yard, 

Presently  a  carriage  drove  up,  in  which  I 
saw  a  face  I  knew.  It  was  an  open  carriage, 
frosty  thougn  the  day  was.  Mr.  Lyndon — the 
Lyndon  in  possession,  the  Tommy  Goodboy — 
sat  in  it,  with  a  pale,  handsome,  slender  young 
woman,  whom  I  assumed  to  be  one  of  his  daugh- 
ters. The  carriage  stopped  at  the  entrance  to 
Westminster  Hall. 

"Now,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "  we  are  in  for 
a  pretty  scene.  "t 

I  saw  the  other  Lyndon  move  forward.  Sud- 
denly he  drew  back,  as  the  strident  voice  of  the 
M.P.  was  heard  saying, 

"You  wait  there,  Lilla;  I'll  just  take  my 
seat  and  come  back." 

The  member  got  down  and  strode  into  the 
Hall,  and  the  carriage  began  to  withdraw  to 
the  other  side  of  the  yard. 

I  almost  thought  of  profiting  by  the  interval  to 
seize  the  confounded  Heavy  Father,  expostulate 
with  him,  and  even  drag  him  away,  when  I  saw 
him  break  from  the  crowd,  plunge  at  the  car- 
riage, and  cling  to  its  side. 

"Lilla!"  he  exclaimed,  in  tones  so  loud  that 
even  those  who  were  farther  off  than  I  from  the 
carriage  must  have  heard  the  words  distinctly 
— "Lilla,  my  daughter,  my  beloved  daughter  ! 
do  you  not  know  your  father — your  outcast, 
wronged  father?  Have  they,  then,  taught  you 
to  hate,  hate,  hate  me,  my  sweet  child? — Get 
away;  don't- attempt  to  interfere.  What  busi- 
ness is  it  of  yours,  confound  you!" 

These  last  words  were  addressed  to  the  first 
policeman  who  rushed  forward  and  attempted 
to  drag  him  away. 

The  young  lady  in  the  carnage  sat  pale  and 
apparently  bewildered,  but  without  showing  any 
wild  affright.  She  was  a  handsome  girl,  with 
a  colorless  Madonna  face,  large  deep  violet 
eyes,  and  dark  brown  hair. 

"  Come,  none  of  this ! "  expostulated  the  po- 
liceman. "You  come  away  quietly,  or  I  shall 
have  to  lock  you  up." 

"Stand  back,  minion !  Blue-coated  minion, 
away!  That  lady  is  my  daughter.  May  not 
a  father  speak  with  his  own  child?  I  appeal 


74 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


to  my  fellow-countrymen,  my  fellow-English- 
men here  around.  They  will  not  allow  me  to 
be  thus  ill-used." 


"Bravo,  old  cove!"  was  the  remark  of  one 
fellow-Englishman. 

"Go  it,  Wiggy!"  cried  another  sympathizer. 

The  general  crowd  laughed. 

The  girl  in  the  carriage  looked  paler  than 
before,  but  she  fixed  pitying  eyes  on  poor  bat- 
tling Lyndon. 

"Don't  hurt  him,"  she  called  to  the  police- 


The poor  man  is 


This 


man,  in  clear,  firm  tones. 
mad!" 

"  I  am  not  mad  !  "  screamed  Lyndon. 
hair  —  "  and  he  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  bu 
stopped. 

I  do  believe  he  was  about  to  say, 
I  tear  is  mine!"  but,  recollecting  that  he  on' 
wore  a  wig,  he  checked  himself  in  time.      " 
am  not  mad!     That  lady  is  my  daughter." 

"  No,  she  ain't,"  expostulated  the  policeman 
"  I  know  that  lady  well  enough.  Come  awa 
now,  that's  a  good  fellow,  and  don't  make  an 
more  row.  Come  away.  Where  do  you  live 
where  are  your  friends  ?" 

"There!  my  daughter  is  my  only  friend 
Let  me  go  !  Let  me  know  if  she  casts  me  off 
—  Lilla  !  Are  you  not  Lilla  ? 

"My  name  is  Lilla,"  said  the  young  lady 
looking  pityingly  at  him  ;  "  b^t  I  do  not  kno\ 
you.  —  I  am  sure,"  she  said  to  the  policeman 
"the  poor  man  is  mad.  Pray  take  him  away 
but  deal  gently  with  him  ;  and  let  me  know 
please,  if  you  can,  something  about  him.  Send 
.some  one  to  me  —  to  Miss  Lilla  Lyndon,  Con 
naught  Place.  Has  he  no  friends  ?  Does  no 
body  know  him?" 

An  impulse  I  could  not  resist  dragged  me 
into  the  business.  I  pushed  my  way  through 
the  crowd  ;  I  took  off  my  hat  to  the  young 
lady,  whose  sweet,  calm  face  had  attracted  me 
from  the  first. 

"I  know  him,  Miss  Lyndon,"  I  said;  "and 
if  he  will  come  with  me  I  shall  be  happy  to 
take  charge  of  him.  " 

"He  is  mad,  is  he  not?"  she  asked,  bending 
forward  and  lowering  her  tone. 
"In  one  sense  he  is  indeed  mad. 
"  Can  I  do  any  thing  for  him  ?     Is  he  an  ob- 
ject of  charity  ?     Has  he  no  friends  ? 

"  He  has,  I  believe,  no  friends  —  none  what- 
ever." 

"  You  are  not,  then,  a  friend  of  his  ?" 
"Indeed,  no  ;  but  I  know  some  members  of 
his  family,  and  should  like  to  take  charge  of 
him  for  their  sake." 

By  this  time,  however,  Lyndon  had  quite  re- 
covered himself.  His  mistake  was  clear  to 
him  now.  The  name  of  Lilla  had  misled  him. 
He  really  had  thought,  no  doubt,  that  the  Lilla 
Lyndon  before  him  must  be  his  own  daughter. 
He  twisted  himself  from  the  hands  of  the  po- 
liceman, and,  coming  up  to  the  carriage,  took 
off  his  hat  and  made  a  low  bow. 

"I  have  to  ask  the  lady's  pardon,"  he  said, 
"  her  very  humble  pardon.  I  am  not  mad  ;  I 


am  as  sane  as  any  senator  over  the  way ;  but  I 
have  made  a  mistake— not  so  great  a  mistake, 
perhaps,  as  it  may  seem  just  now.  I  am  but 
mad  north-northwest,  although  in  this  instance, 
and  with  the  wind  southerly  too,  I  have  failed 
to  know  a  hawk  from  a  hernshaw.  I  have 
made  a  mistake,  and  I  apologize  for  it.  What 
more  can  a  gentleman  do  ?  I  am  a  gentleman, 
Miss  Lilla  Lyndon,  although  I  confess  that  just 
at  present  I  may  not  perhaps  quite  look  like 
one;  but  you  shall  know  the  fact  one  day. 
Meanwhile,  allow  me  again  to  apologize  and 
to  withdraw.  Enough  has  been  done  for  fame 
to-day.  My  compliments  to  your  dear  father. 
I  decline  the  escort  of  the  police-force,  and  I 
repudiate  the  friendship  of  Mr.  Emanuel  Tem- 
This  ha  pie.  I  want  no  one  to  take  care  of  me  but  Prov- 
idence." 

He  again  made  a  low  bow,  addressed  to 
Miss  Lyndon,  honored  me  with  a  contemptuous 
glance,  pushed  his  way  through  the  grinning 
and  wondering  crowd  up  to  a  grinning  and 
wondering  driver  of  a  hansom  cab,  mounted 
lightly  into  the  cab,  and  was  rattled  awav. 

I  was  backing  out  of  the  dispersing  "crowd 
too,  when  Miss  Lyndon  again  leaned  from  her 
carriage,  and  said,  very  earnestly,  "  May  I  ask, 
Sir,  if  you  can  tell  me  any  thing  about  that 
strange  man  ?" 

"  Nothing,  Miss  Lyndon  ;  nothing  that  you 
could  care  to  hear. " 

"But  there  is  something.  Pray  what  is  his 
name  ?  Oh,  here  is  papa  at  last." 

Mr.  Lyndon,  M.P.,  caflfe  rapidly  up,  looking 
red  and  angry.  I  took  advantage  of  his  com- 
ing to  escape  from-an  embarrassing  question  by 
bowing  to  the  lady  and  walking  away. 

I  looked  calmly  in  Mr.  Lyndon's  face,  but 
sought  and  made  no  sign  of  recognition.  I 
could  see  that  his  daughter  began  at  once  ea- 
gerly talking  with  him,  and  that  she  glanced 
toward  me.  I  could  see  too  that  he  looked  ir- 
and  excited.  And  I  had  the  comfort 
of  thinking  that  he  would  probably  set  me  doAvn 
as  an  accomplice  and  actor  in  his  brother's  pleas- 
ant little  performance. 

The  whole  scene,  though  it  seemed  long,  had 
not  occupied  five  minutes,  and  the  little  bubble 
of  excitement  it  had  created  in  Palace  Yard 
oon  collapsed  and  wholly  melted  away. 

Mr.  Lyndon  and  his  daughter  drove  off;  and 
by  the  time  Ned  Lambert  came  up  to  his  ap- 
>ointment  there  was  no  evidence  of  any  thing 
unusual  having  happened. 

I  did  not  tell  him  any  thing  about  it,  although 
should  have  been  glad  enough  of  a  little  of 
lis  advice ;  but  I  preferred  to  think  the  matter 
almly  over  before  I  took  any  body,  even  him, 
nto  my  confidence. 

Late  that  night  I  was  going  home  alone, 
aving  parted  with  Lambert.  I  was  walking 
owly  along  Piccadilly,  when  an  arm  was  sud- 
enly  thrust  into  mine,  a  burst  of  mellow  laugh- 
er pealed  in  my  ear,  and  I  found  that  the  de- 
ested  Lyndon  was  walking  beside  me. 

Temple,"  he  broke  out,  "I  forgive  you! 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


75 


To-day  I  repudiated  you,  because  I  thought 
you  wanted  to  disavow  my  acquaintance,  you 
shabby  dog,  in  order  that  you  might  stand  well 
in  the  eyes  of  my  pretty  niece.     But  I  am  de- 
lighted to  meet  you  now,  for  I  do  so  want  to 
talk  the  matter  over ;  and  you  are,  I  give  you 
my  word,  my  sole  confidant." 
I  came  to  a  dead  stand. 
"Pray  tell  me,"  I  asked,  as  sternly  as  I  could, 
"  which  is  your  way  ?" 

"  Just  so,  in  order  that  you  may  go  the  other 
way.  I  know  all  about  that,  Temple ;  and,  as 
I  have  had  occasion  to  remark  to  you  before, 
you  sometimes  adopt  a  sort  of  conventional 
coarseness  only  fit  for  the  most  inferior  trans- 
pontine drama.  Don't  try  that  on,  Temple. 
Qualify  for  the  Adelphi,  at  the  lowest,  if  you 
will  practice  stage-talk  in  private  life.  Be  ge- 
nial, man,  be  sociable !  Look  at  me.  Above 
all,  try  to  be  a  gentleman.  Don't  you  know 
that  I  rather  like  you  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  then  I  don't  like  you." 
"Coarsely  candid.  /  don't  mind.  Come, 
let  us  move  on  a  little.  I  am  going  your  way, 
wherever  that  is.  Don't  try  to  thwart  me ;  I 
have  a  motive  in  it.  I'll  follow  you,  if  I  can 
not  have  the  pleasure  of  your  friendly  compan- 
ionship." 

It  occurred  to  me  at  once  that  he  had  now 
perhaps  resolved  on  changing  his  tactics,  and 
persecuting  his  wife  and  child ;  and  that  he 
hoped,  by  finding  out  where  I  lived,  to  come 
upon  their  track.  So  I  straightway  resolved 
to  baffle  him.  Like 'Morgrana  observing  the 
stranger  in  the  Arabian  tale,  I  at  onCe  leaped 
to  the  conclusion  that,  whatever  he  might  have 
in  view,  it  would  be  for  the  interest  of  society  to 
thwart  him.  So  I  permitted  his  companionship, 
and  walked  on,  resolved  to  lead  him  a  pretty 
dance  if  he  hoped  to  find  out  my  whereabouts. 
"  That  was  a  funny  mistake  of  mine  to-day," 
he  chuckled ;  "  but  very  natural.  I  don't  know 
that  any  harm  is  done,  after  all.  It's  not  a  bad 
way  of  opening  the  campaign,  and  giving  Tom- 
my Goodboy  a  sort  of  notion  of  what  he  has 
got  to  expect.  What  a  happy  evening  he  must 
have  spent !  What  a  string  of  lies  he  must  have 
told  that  fine  girl,  my  niece !  Isn't  she  a  fine 
girl,  Temple  ?  I  feel  quite  proud  of  her. 
foresee  that  she  will  prove  immensely  useful. 
Goodboy  will  have  to  come  to  terms,  or  woe 
upon  his  life!  By-the-way,  Temple,  do  you 
know  any  thing  of  astronomy?" 
"Nothing." 

"  Ah !  what  a  pity !  Then  that  magnificen 
sky  over  our  heads  is,  I  suppose,  all  a  blank  to 
you !  Just  a  pavement  or  floor  inverted  !  ] 
dare  say  the  floundering  Venuses  and  Cupids 
on  the  Hampton  Court  ceiling  would  interes 
you  a  good  deal  more  than  that  field  of  sublime 
constellations.  Well,  I  tell  you  frankly,  I 
wouldn't  be  that  sort  of  fellow,  Temple,  for  any 
thing  you  could  give  me.  No,  I  wouldn't  in 
deed  ;  I  have  always  noticed,  though,  that  you 
professional  singing-fellows  are  generally  ven 
stupid.  The  spiritual  nature  doesn't  seem  t 


get  developed  at  all.     Wonder  how  that  is? 
women  don't  appear  to  me  to  be  so  bad." 
'Are  you  walking  so  much  out  of  your  way 
o  philosophize  on  professional  singers?" 

'Acute  youth,  no,  I  am  not.  The  fact  is, 
Mr.  Temple — for  I  want  to  get  back  to  a  game 
>f  billiards— I  have  begun  to  think  a  good  deal 

f  what  you  were  saying,  only  too  eloquently, 

he  other  day.     It  didn't  impress  me  then,  as, 

am  bound  to  say,  it  ought  to  have  done.     I 

vas  in  a  frivolous  and  cynical  mood ;  unfortu- 

ately,  I  sometimes  am  so.  I  mean  the  even- 
ng  that  you  appealed  to  me  so  very  touchingly 
ibout  my  wife  and  child.  You  shot  an  arrow 
nto  the  air,  Temple,  and,  although  at  the  mo- 
nent  unheeded,  it  came  down  and  found  its 
nark — a  father's  heart.  I  do  now  long  to  see 
my  child.  I  thought  I  had  found  her  to-day ; 
alas !  the  voice  of  Nature  guided  me  wrong,  or 
at  least  not  quite  right.  Temple,  conduct  me 

0  my  child !     You  know  where  she  is.     Lead 
me  to  her." 

"This  sort  of  stuff,"  I  replied,  very  calmly 
and  deliberately,  "does  not  impose  upon  me. 
[  suppose  you  want  to  make  your  daughter  the 
victim  of  some  such  disgraceful  exposure  as 
hat  to  which  you  tried  to  subject  your  niece 
to-day.  That  you  shall  certainly  never  do  by 
any  help  or  hint  of  mine.  Let  that  be  enough. 
Were  you  to  parade  the  streets  all  night  at  my 
side — to  my  disgust — were  you  to  dog  my  foot- 
steps for  a  month,  you  should  learn  nothing  of 
your  daughter  from  me." 

"Temple,  an  awful  thought  flashes  on  me! 

1  beseech  of  you  to  answer  me !     Heavens,  it 
can't  be!    and  yet — tell  me,  is  my  daughter 
married — and  to  you?" 

"  She  is  not ;"  and  I  broke  fiercely  away. 

"Thank  Heaven  for  that!"  was  his  fervent 
and  pious  exclamation. 

I  hurried  away.  He  looked  after  me  for  a 
while,  hesitating;  then,  apparently  giving  up 
the  idea  of  forcing  any  more  of  his  company  on 
me  just  then,  he  broke  into  a  loud  laugh,  sang 
out  "  Good-night,  Signor  Pantalon  !"  and  went 
chuckling  and  stamping  back  in  the  direction 
of  his  favorite  Haymarket. 

It  was  a  hideous  nuisance  to  me  to  have  the 
existence  of  this  dreadful  little  creature  hung 
as  a  sort  of  mysterious  burden  round  my  neck. 
A  secret  with  which  I  had  nothing  to  do,  which 
I  wanted  neither  to  keep  nor  to  disclose,  was 
thrust  on  me,  and  seemed  to  lay  a  sort  of  crit- 
ical and  embarrassing  responsibility  on  me. 
Sometimes  I  thought  of  taking  Mrs.  Lyndon 
aside  and  telling  her  the  whole  matter,  and  so 
putting  her  on  her  guard  ;  again,  I  turned  over 
in  my  mind  the  propriety  of  trusting  to  Lilla's 
natural  good  sense  and  courage,  and  making 
her  the  confidante.  But  so  long  as  there  was 
any  chance  or  possibility  of  his  not  finding  them 
out  and  disturbing  or  disgracing  them,  I  shrank 
from  adding  this  fresh  and  superfluous  burden 
of  vexation  to  their  hard  lives.  It  was  clear 
that  any  chance  that  Lilla — my  Lilla — might 
have  from  the  patronage  or  bounty  of  her  uncle 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


would  be  utterly  gone  if  once  her  life  becam 
mixed  up  with  that  of  her  unfortunate  fathe 
I  very  much  mistook  the  character  of  Mr.  Lyn 
don,  M.P.,  if  that  gentleman  would  not  ca 
off  his  niece  as  though  she  were  a  plague-ii 
fected  garment,  once  it  became  apparent  tha 
recognizing  her  would  be  encouraging  his  ou 
law  brother.  Thus  far,  at  least,  the  crusad 
of  the  latter  seemed  directed  only  against  th 
inhabitants  of  the  fine  house  in  Connaugh 
Place.  And  although  I  had  no  doubt  that  h 
would  in  the  end,  if  needful,  kick  with  equa 
foot  at  the  door  of  the  Chelsea  lodging-house 
yet,  until  he  showed  some  signs  of  beginnin 
to  attack,  it  seemed  only  raising  a  needles 
alarm  to  put  my  friends  on  their  guard. 

Positively,  I  entertained  ideas  of  writing  to 
or  waiting  on,  or  throwing  myself  in  the  way 
of  Miss  Lyndon — the  other  Lilla  Lyndon— and 
telling  her  who  the  madman  was,  and  appeal 
ing  to  her  pity  and  kindliness  to  prevail  upon 
her  father  to  pension  him  quietly  off,  and  thus 
buy  his  perpetual  absence  and  silence.     I  feai 
that  pure  good-nature  toward  my  friends  die 
not  wholly  inspire  this  notion.     I  own  that  ] 
should  have  dearly  liked  a  few  words  of  con- 
versation with  that  sweet,  clear  voice ;  to  have 
looked  in  those  pure,  pitying  eyes  again.    Was 
this,  then,  one  of  the  proud,  cold,  puritanical 
spinsters  my  Lilla  had  so  often  described  to  me  ? 
She  had  clearly  never  seen  this  one,  at  least ; 
and,  unless  the  latter  was  a  very  accomplished 
actress  indeed,  she  could  never  have  heard  of 
any  other  Lilla  Lyndon  than  herself.    For  when 
the  little  scoundrel  claimed  her  as  his  daughter 
because  her  name  was  Lilla,  her  face  exhibited 
only  surprise  and  pity;    she  showed  not  the 
faintest  gleam   of  any  comprehension   of  his 
meaning  or  his  mistake. 

I  could  not  forget  her  eyes  and  her  voice.  I 
even  walked  by  Connaught  Place  several  times, 
hoping  to  see  her,  but  not  confessing  to  myself 
that  I  did  so  hope.  So  I  temporized  and  post- 
poned, and  kept  my  secret,  and  did  nothing 
more.  But  I  held  still  to  my  first  impulse,  and 
wished  for  a  chance  of  trusting  to  the  girl's  pure 
and  sympathetic  face,  and  breaking  through 
ceremony  and  conventionality  by  appealing  to 
her  and  telling  her  all.  • 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AGAIN  —  AT     LAST! 

THIS  is  not  a  story  of  the  struggles  of  a  poor 
artist  and  adventurer,  though  so  much  of  my 
life  was  indeed  just  such  a  story.  But  lives 
like  mine  have  been  told  so  often  before  that  I 
opulcl  add  little  new  by  dwelling  on  the  profes- 
sional and  adventurous  part  of  my  existence, 
even  if  I  had  the  art  to  tell  such  things  as  other 
men  have  told  them.  Therefore  I  frankly  in- 
timated to  my  readers  long  ago  that  I  do  not 
mean  to  enter  into  the  details  of  my  struggles, 
my  disappointments,  my  privations,  my  tempo- 


rary-success. Of  all  these  I  shall  only  say,  like 
the  fair  dame  pressed  to  explain  the  duties  of 
the  cicisbeo,  "I  beseech  you  to  suppose  them." 
In  brief,  the  professional  story  of  my  life  is  this  : 
I  struggled  long  and  wearily.  At  last  I  suc- 
ceeded, for  a  time.  Then  I  lost  the  best  of  my 
voice,  and  I  faded  back  into  quiet  obscurity, 
not  without  comfort.  For  what  Carlyle  calls 
four-and-twenty  resplendent  months  I  was  a 
brilliant  success  in  the  popular  sense.  I  kriow 
myself,  and  I  know  that  I  never  was  or  could 
be  a  great  singer.  I  never  was  in  the  high 
sense  an  artist.  I  never  had  a  genius  for  mu- 
sic, or  for  any  thing ;  but  I  had  my  run  of  suc- 
cess— I  had  my  day.  It  was  a  short  one,  and  it 
is  over ;  and  I  don't  regret  it.  "I  cease  to  live," 
says  the  poet's  Egmont ;  "  but  I  have  lived !" 

In  my  days  of  swift  success  I  came  to  know 
a  great  many  authors,  sculptors,  painters,  crit- 
ics, artists  of  every  class,  who  had  all  more  or 
less  succeeded  in  life;    and  I  found  that  the 
actor  or  the  singer  has  some  splendid  chances 
which  are  denied  to  any  other  adventurer  after 
Dopular  favor.     Worst  off  of  all  his  brethren  I 
•ate  the  literary  adventurer,  although  Thacke- 
ray, with  the  complacency  of  recognized  and 
riumphant  genius,  pointed  out  the   immense 
advantage  the  author  enjoys  in  requiring  nei- 
her  patronage  nor  capital,  but  only  a  few  sheets 
of  paper  and  a  steel  pen.     Where  is  his  arena, 
lis  tribune  ?    He  has  written  his  grand  tragedy. 
Very  good.     Who  is  going  to  play  it?— nay, 
vhat  manager  is  going  to  read  it?     He  has 
inished  every  chapter  of  his  novel ;  and  then 
egins  the  dreariest  part  of  his  business.     I  re- 
member literary  friends  of  mine  used  to  say, 
'hen  sometimes  the  author  of  "  Vanity  Fair" 
howed  his  grand  white  head  among  us,  that 
ie  had  had  toil  enough  to  persuade  the  public 
o  read  what  he  had  written,  that  he  had  hawked 
bout  his  great  book  long  enough  before  any 
ublisher  could  be  induced  to  run  the  risk  of 
n-inting  it.     The  difficulty  was  to  get  any  pub- 
slier  to  read  it.      Change  "Vanity  Fair"  into   | 
picture  or  a  statue,  and  it  would  at  least  have 
ound  a  place  in  an  exhibition,  where  a  crowd, 
oming  for  the  sole  purpose  of  looking  at  pic- 
ures  and  statues,  would  have  seen  it,  and  some 
ye  would  surely  have  found  out  its  worth.    To 
;ad  through  thousands  on  thousands  of  scrawled 


MS.  pages,  in  the  hope  of  some  time  coming  on 
a  literary  treasure,  is  a  wearisome  diving  process 
which  only  stubborn  souls  long  endure ;  but  to 
hunt  through  an  art-exhibition  is  a  pleasant  and 
easy  work.  I  rate  the  chances  of  the  painter 
or  the  sculptor,  then,  rather  above  those  of  the 
literary  man.  But  while  it  is  true  that  not  ev- 
ery one  can  get  a  chance  of  exhibiting  his  pic- 
ture in  any  gallery,  it  is  also  true  that  even  in 
the  gallery  it  may  pass  unnoticed  of  the  crowd, 
who  only  run  to  look  at  the  pictures  of  men 
with  names,  or  pictures  they  have  been  fore- 
warned to  look  at.  Suppose,  however,  that 
every  one  going  into  the  gallery  were  compelled 
to  look  at  every  picture  in  turn — were  compelled 
at  least  to  stand  before  it,  and  look  at  that  or 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


77 


nothing  for  a  certain  number  of  minutes,  would 
not  the  obscure  artist's  chances  be  immensely 
increased  in  value?  But  this  is  precisely  the 
condition  of  the  actor  or  the  singer.  Once,  at 
the  very  least,  in  his  three  or  five  acts  he  is  in 
absolute  possession  of  the  audience.  No  one 
may  speak  or  sing  but  he.  It  is  his  chance. 
If  he  can  speak  or  sing  in  any  way  worth  listen- 
ing to  there  is  his  opportunity  of  doing  it.  I 
hav*e  known  scores  of  men  in  other  professions 
who  only  wanted  just  one  such  chance  to  crown 
their  ambition,  or,  at  all  events,  to  crush  it,  and 
1  who  never  got  the  chance,  but  went  along  through 
life  disappointed  and  embittered,  girding  at  the 
successful,  snarling  at  popular  favor,  wailing 
against  destiny,  and  always  convinced  that  if 
the  world  could  but  have  seen  or  heard  them 
it  wo'uld  have  fallen  in  homage  at  their  feet. 
The  public,  indeed,  will  not  go  fishing  for  tal- 
ent, like  pearl-divers.  It  is  enough  to  ask  that 
they  shall  recognize  it  when  set  before  them. 
"Genius,"  says  Miirger,  "is  the  sun;  all  the 
world  sees  it.  Talent  is  the  diamond  in  the 
mine  ;  it  is  prized  when  discovered."  This  was 
my  chance.  I  got  an  opportunity  of  holding  up 
my  poor  little  artistic  diamond.  The  opening 
came ;  I  had  the  stage  all  to  myself  for  a  few 
moments,  and  I  really  had  been  gifted  by  Na- 
ture with  a  voice  which  then,  at  least,  could 
hardly  have  failed  to  make  an  impression.  It 
made  its  impression,  and  I  succeeded. 

This  was  in  Italy.  I  came  home  to  En- 
gland, after  an  absence  comparatively  very 
short,  a  success.  My  way  began  to  be  clear 
before  me.  I  began  to  have  friends,  admirers, 
rivals,  detractors,  satellites,  partisans,  and  ene- 
mies. I  grew  familiar  with  my  own  name  in 
print ;  I  became  accustomed  to  the  receipt  of 
anonymous  letters — some  full  of  praise,  not  a 
few  full  of  love,  a  great  many  breathing  con- 
tempt and  detestation.  I  began  to  judge  of 
journals  and  critics  only  according  to  their  way 
of  dealing  with  myself. 

I  must  say  that  hardly  any  kind  of  life  seems 
to  be  more  corrupting  to  independent  and  gen- 
erous manhood  than  that  which  depends  upon 
the  public  admiration.  It  is  hardly  a  whit  bet- 
ter than  that  which  hangs  on  princes'  favor. 
The  miserable  jealousies,  the  paltry  rivalries 
and  spites,  the  mean,  imperious  triumph  over 
somebody  else's  failure  or  humiliation,  the  piti- 
ful exultation  over  one's  own  passing  success, 
the  womanish  anxiety  to  know  what  is  said  of 
one,  the  child-like  succession  of  exaltation  and 
depression,  the  absorbing  vanity,  the  sickening 
love  of  praise,  and  the  nauseous  capacity  for 
swallowing  it — all  these  seem  to  be  as  strictly 
the  disease  and  danger  of  artistic  life  as  yellow- 
fever  is  of  the  West  Indies,  or  dysentery  of  the 
East.  I  have  indeed  known  strong  natures 
both  in  men  and  women  which  could  defy  the 
contagion,  and  retain  their  healthy  and  self-re- 
liant simplicity  to  the  last.  I  have  seen,  even 
in  stage-life,  virgins  who  could  tread  those  hid- 
eous hot  plow-shares  of  vanity  and  jealousy,  and 
come  out  unscathed.  I  have  known  men  who 


to  the  last  kept  the  whiteness  of  their  souls,  and 
never  fejt  a  pang  of  mean  joy  over  another's 
failure,  or  of  unmanly  pride  or  unmanly  grief 
at  success  or  failure  of  their  own.  But  such 
natures  are  indeed  the  rarest  of  phenomena, 
and  only  make  the  general  character  of  the 
race  show  more  repulsively.  You  can't  help 
it ;  I  mean,  we  common  natures  can  not  help 
it.  Some  of  us  go  in  resolving  that  we  will  not 
be  like  the  others,  that  we  will  not  lay  down  our 
manhood,  and  our  courage,  and  our  generosity, 
and  succumb  to  the  poisonous  atmosphere  of 
praise,  and  rivalry,  and  jealousy.  But  we  soon 
grow  like  the  rest;  we  rage  at  a  disparaging 
word ;  we  swell  with  pride  over  the  most  out- 
rageous praise ;  our  bosoms  burst  with  gall  when 
some  new  rival  is  spoken  of  too  favorably  or  ap- 
plauded too  loudly;  we  rejoice  with  a  base  and 
coward  joy,  which  our  lying  lips  dare  not  con- 
fess, when  some  one  whom  openly  we  call  a 
friend  makes  a  failure  and  falls  down.  Our 
nature  becomes  positively  sexless ;  and  man  de- 
tests woman  if  she  outshines  him,  just  as  rival 
beauties  of  a  fribble  season  may  hate  each  oth- 
er. I  protest  I  did  not,  until  I  came  in  for 
some  little  artistic  success,  ever  believe  it  pos- 
sible I  could  hate — or,  indeed,  that  any  man 
could  hate  —  an  attractive  and  pretty  woman 
who  had  never  either  slighted  or  betrayed  him. 
I'soon  learned  that  the  wretched  creature  who 
lives  on  the  favor*of  the  public  can  get  to  envy 
and  detest  any  being  that  stands  between  him 
and  the  sun  of  his  existence. 

From  my  soul  I  detested  the  whole  thing.  I 
distinctly  saw  my  moral  nature  becoming  con- 
taminated by  it,  and  I  despised  myself  even  for 
the  momentary  pang  of  pride  and  envy  which  I 
honestly  did  my  best  to  crush  and  conquer.  I 
sometimes  thought  to  myself,  "The  time  must 
soon  come,  if  one  of  us  does  not  die  meanwhile, 
when  I  shall  meet  Christina.  Shall  I  find  her 
even  as  one  of  these  ?  Shall  I  find  that  her 
heart  swells  with  pitiful  pride  and  rankles  with 
paltry  spleen ;  that  she  hates  her  rivals  ;  that 
she  can  swallow  any  amount  of  praise,  and  glad- 
den in  it ;  that  she  can  cry  when  some  critic 
disparages  her  or  praises  some  one  else?" 

I  could  not  believe  it ;  yet  I  could  not  but 
fear ;  I  could  not  but  sometimes  wish  that  I  had 
been  less  fortunate  in  my  personal  ambition,  and 
that  I  were  still  far  removed  in  obscurity  out  of 
her  possible  path. 

I  heard  of  her  often.  She  was  soon  to  return 
to  England,  where  her  sudden  departure  and 
long  absence,  after  so  sudden  a  success,  lent 
new  attraction  to  her.  People  said  she  was 
married.  I  had  heard  the  statement  almost 
with  composure.  She  had  become  like  a  dream 
to  me.  When  I  saw  her  last  I  was  little  more 
than  a  boy  ;  I  stood  now  on  the  latest  verge  of 
my  youth  :  a  whole  working  lifetime  lay  be- 
tween. I  believed  that  I  had  so  far  disciplined 
my  nature  and  subordinated  early  and  disap- 
pointed passion,  that  I  could  meet  her  now 
again  with  unmoved  politeness,  and  even  on 
our  first  meeting  look  calmly  in  her  face,  touch 


78 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


her  hand  without  tremor,  and  congratulate  her 
becomingly  upon  her  great  success. 

Yes,  they  said  she  was  married ;  and  it  was 
certain  that  she  now  described  herself  as  Ma- 
dame Reichstein,  not  Mademoiselle  Reichstein. 
Indeed,  some  maintained  that  she  was  not  only 
a  wife,  but  actually  a  widow.  But  they  said 
all  manner  of  things  about  her.  Her  husband 
was  an  entrepreneur ;  he  was  an  Australian  ad- 
venturer ;  he  was  a  rich  Yankee  speculator ;  he 
was  a  scion  of  a  noble  Austrian  family,  who 
never  would  look  at  him  after  his  mesalliance; 
whoever  he  was,  he  had  deserted  her :  no,  it 
was  she  who  had  run  away  from  him  while  they 
were  living  at  Nice,  and  actually  in  their  honey- 
moon ;  he  used  to  beat  her ;  she  once  tried  to 
stab  him :  at  all  events,  he  was  dead  now.  Nay, 
there  was  not  a  word  of  truth  in  all  that ;  the 
real  fact  was,  that  she  never  was  married  at  all ; 
the  young  nobleman  killed  himself  for  love  of 
her,  and  left  her  all  his  property ;  and  so  forth, 
and  so  forth.  These  and  countless  other  stories 
— equally  incoherent,  extravagant,  and  contra- 
dictory— passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  among 
the  people  I  met  who  talked  about  Christina 
Reichstein. 

I  found  Ned  Lambert,  when  I  returned  to 
England,  quite  established  as  the  household 
friend  of  the  Lyndons.  He  used  to  come  and 
dine  with  them  almost  every  Sunday,  having 
made  a  definite  arrangement  ft>  that  effect  with 
Mrs.  Lyndon,  who  was  ready  enough,  and  re-, 
joiced  to  eke  out  her  housekeeping  by  such  a 
mode  of  contribution,  and  who  had  indeed  quite 
a  genius  for  cookery.  Lambert  liked  the  change 
immensely.  He  said  he  was  fond  of  a  good 
dinner  on  Sunday,  and  that  when  he  dined 
alone  at  his  own  lodgings  he  never  ventured 
to  ask  his  landlady  for  any  thing  beyond  the 
cold  corpse  of  a  fowl  cooked  on  the  Saturday. 
But  it  was  not  his  relish  for  a  savory  little  din- 
ner which  brought  him  all  the  way  to  our  dreary 
district ;  and  I  saw  a  marked  change,  both  in 
him  and  in  Lilla,  when  I  once  more  joined  the 
little  circle.  Lilla  was  more  thoughtful,  more 
melancholy,  less  pleasure-loving  than  before  ; 
he,  on  the  other  hand,  was  generally  brighter 
and  more  animated,  unless  when  he  was  study- 
ing manners  and  deportment,  which  indeed  he 
almost  always  was.  Many  a  time  I  saw  him 
furtively  glance  under  his* eyes  at  Lilla,  as  if 
to  learn  from  her  expression  whether  he  had  ac- 
complished a  triumph  or  committed  a  solecism 
of  etiquette.  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
to  make  an  inquiry  once  in  Lilla's  presence 
about  his  Sunday  evening  relief  from  coat- 
sleeves;  whereat  he  looked  so  distressed  and 
confused  that  Lilla  insisted  on  having  the  whole 
story,  and  had  it  accordingly,  and  laughed  very 
much  ;  and  Lambert  at  last  gave  way,  and  like- 
wise laughed ;  and  we  all  laughed  a  good  deal 
longer  than  the  story  deserved.  I  was  glad  to 
have  made  Lilla  laugh  at  any  one's  expense, 
for,  poor  girl,  she  laughed  less  now  than  of  old 
days,  and  her  face  looked  pale  and  anxious.  I 
soon  found  out  the  reason. 


Between  Lambert  and  myself  we  had  boxes, 
stalls,  and  so  forth,  for  some  theatre  almost  at 
will.  One  night  we  went — Lilla.  her  mother, 
Lambert,  and  myself:  Lambert  would  not  stir 
without  Mrs.  Lyndon— to  see  a  new  performer 
as  Claude  Melnotte.  He,  the  new  Claude  Mel- 
notte,  was  the  idol  of  one  of  the  colonies,  and 
was  a  statuesque,  handsome,  deep-voiced,  en- 
ergetic, wooden-headed  sort  of  actor.  I  thought 
the  whole  thing  dreadfully  tiresome,  and  Laln- 
bert  thought  so  too  ;  but  Lilla  was  quite  melted 
by  it,  and  streamed  with  tears.  A  year  before 
I  know  that  she  would  have  laughed  at  the  busi- 
ness, or  yawned  over  it.  I  saw  Lambert's  eyes 
resting  on  her  with  profound  admiration  and 
sympathy ;  and  he  looked  up  and  caught  my 
eye,  and  gave  me  a  glance,  partly  whimsical, 
partly  sentimental,  partly  bashful  and  apologet- 
ic, which  would  have  made  quite  a  picture  in  it- 
self. She  had  her  depth.8  of  sensibility,  then, 
this  poor  girl,  whose  bloom  the  hard  coarse  grit 
of  London  life  had  so  nearly  rubbed  away. 
Never  did  she  shed  tears  at  a  theatre  when 
I  was  her  companion,  or  care  for  any  per- 
formance which  was  supposed  to  demand  tear- 
shedding  as  its  tribute. 

I  spoke  of  the  change  to  Lambert  himself 
that  night. 

"  It's  true,"  he  replied,  slowly  and  sententious- 
ly ;  "I  have  often  thought  that  the  best  test  you 
could  have  of  a  woman's  intelligence  and  of  her 
sympathies  would  be  to  watch  her  demeanor  at 
a  theatre.  Hear  her  comments,  and  observe 
how  she  looks ;  and  the  fellow  who  does  not 
know  her  then  is  an  idiot,  who  never  could 
know  any  thing  of  her.  You  can't  imagine, 
Temple,  how  I  hate  some  women  I  see  at  a 
play :  they  look  so  cold  and  stolid  and  severely 
proper  and  self-contained,  that  I  should  like  to 
have  them  expelled  from  the  presence  of  art  al- 
together. I  wonder  how  you  will  feel  at  the 
sight  of  such  people  when  you  come  on  our  stage, 
before  our  unimpassioned  creatures  here.  It  is 
not  like  Italy,  Temple — at  least,  I  fancy  so ;  and 
indeed  I  have  heard  it  from— Oh,  from  many 
who  have  felt  it." 

"From  Madame  Reichstein,  for  example?" 
I  was  determined  not  to  shrink  from  that 
name,  or  allow  him  to  suppose  that  I  faltered 
at  it. 

"  Yes,  from  her  in  especial.  She  was  dread- 
fully chilled  here  in  London,  although  they  gave 
her  quite  unusual  honors." 

"She  would  be.  Her  enthusiasm  and  her 
really  lyric  nature  would  naturally  chafe  against 
our  British  composure." 

He  glanced  at  me  inquiringly,  as  if  he  meant 
to  ask  whether  this  calmness  was  real  or  put  on. 
If  I  had  been  asked  then  I  could  have  answered 
in  all  sincerity  that  I  believed  it  real.     I  know 
now  that  it  was  but  an  effort  of  self-discipline. 
"  We  had  a  sort  of  scene  at  a  theatre  one 
night,"  he  said,  rapidly  changing  the  subject; 
"I  mean  Lilla — Miss  Lyndon — and  I." 
"  Indeed !     What  happened  ?" 
"  Some  fellow— mad,  I  think — seized  her  by 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


79 


the  arm,  just  as  I  was  handing  her  into  a  cab 
— her  mother  was  already  in — and  jabbered 
some  insane  nonsense  at  her.  I  pushed  him 
away,  and  the  wretched  creature  flew  at  me 
like  a  wild-cat,  and  there  was  quite  a  disturb- 
ance." 

"  Who  was  he  ?     What  was  he  like  ?" 

"Oh,  quite  an  outre,  mad-looking  creature, 
small  and  old,  with  a  black  wtg.  I  could  have 
crushed  him  ;  but,  of  course,  I  wasn't  going  to 
hit  a  poor  old  bloke — old  man,  I  mean ;  and  so 
I  only  dragged  him  away,  and  asked  a  police- 
man to  take  charge  of  him.  But  he  was  near 
raising  a  perfect  mob  about  us,  shrieking  out 
that  I  was  carrying  off  his  long-lost  daughter, 
and  I  don't  know  what  other  rubbish ;  and  he 
cut  my  lip,  so  that  I  was  a  pretty  sight,  I  can 
tell  you." 

"What  became  of  Lilla  ?" 

"  She  comported  herself  most  bravely  ;  nei- 
ther screamed  nor  fainted.  I  got  rid  of  my  lu- 
natic as  soon  as  I  could." 

"Did  Mrs.  Lyndon  see  him?" 

"No,  she  didn't.  It  so  happened  that  she 
never  got  a  glimpse  of  him ;  and  I  was  very 
glad.  She  is  a  nervous  woman,  and  would 
have  been  greatly  frightened  by  the  sight  of 
so  extraordinary  a  creature.  Of  course  I  made 
nothing  of  it,  and  I  never  heard  any  more  about 
it." 

"  You  never  found  out  any  thing  about  him?" 

"Never;  and  I  never  tried  to." 

I  said  no  more  on  the  subject ;  I  needed  no 
further  explanation. 

Some  days  after  this,  a  few  of  us — Lambert, 
myself,  and  one  or  two  rising  actors  and  littera- 
teurs— gave  a  little  fete  to  some  of  our  friends  at 
Richmond.  It  was  very  early  in  the  season. 
We  dined,  of  coarse,  at  the  Star  and  Garter. 
Lilla  Lyndon  was  of  the  company.  We  were 
all  very  pleasant.  I  was  as  happy  as  a  bright 
sun,  delicious  air,  and  joyous  company  could 
make  any  man ;  and  I,  at  least,  never  could  be 
insensible  to  the  mere  joy  of  living,  of  barely 
living,  under  such  sun  and  in  such  air.  I  Avas 
a  sort  of  rising  star  too,  in  a  very  small  way, 
and  might  have  flirted  and  been  flattered  a  good 
deal ;  and  did  on  this  occasion  accept  my  op- 
portunities. I  walked  through  the  gardens, 
after  dinner,  with  a  pretty,  vivacious  girl  lean- 
ing on  my  arm ;  a  girl  who  had  just  made  a 
brilliant  success  in  light  comedy,  and  promised 
indeed  to  be  another  Abington  or  Nisbett,  until 
she  married,  poor  thing,  and  died  in  her  first 
confinement.  Her  people  lived  not  far  from 
Norwood  ;  and  a  short  time  since,  walking  out 
from  the  Crystal  Palace  all  ringing  with  music, 
I  strayed  into  a  church-yard,  and  came  iipon  a 
tombstone  bearing  the  name  of  my  poor  young 
friend.  This  Richmond  day,  however,  of  which 
I  speak,  was  darkened  by  no  shadow  from  the 
future,  and  we  were  all  very  bright  and  happy. 

"Look  there!"  said  my  companion,  sud- 
denly, and  with  a  joyous  laugh.  "See  how 
people  make  love  off  the  stage." 

She  directed  my  attention  to  two  figures  in  a 


shady  little  alley  of  shrubs  and  trees  not  far 
from  us.  They  were  Lambert  and  Lilla  Lyn- 
don. She  was  leaning  on  his  arm ;  her  eyes 
were  downcast,  her  cheeks  were  crimson,  her 
step  was  slow.  He  bent  his  tall  figure  over  her ; 
he  was  pleading  earnestly,  passionately — that 
any  one  could  see — into  her  ear.  It  had  come, 
then,  just  as  I  thought  it  would.  He  loved  her : 
and  now  he  was  telling  her  so ;  and  I  could  not 
doubt  what  her  answer  would  be. 

Queer  pangs  shot  through  me.  »I  was  re- 
joiced at  the  prospect  of  the  happiness  of  both 
my  friends.  I  thought  with  delight  that  Lilla 
would  no  longer  be  poor ;  that  she  would  have 
a  true  home  to  shelter  her,  a  manly  heart  to 
lean  on ;  that  he  would  have  a  life  made  warm 
by  love ;  and  I  longed  to  congratulate  them 
both,  and  tell  them  how  sincerely  I  gladdened 
in  their  love  and  their  happiness.  And  yet  the 
sight  brought  with  it  too  a  keen  sense  of  isolation 
and  loneliness.  I  had  felt  for  Lilla  just  that 
warm  and  tender  friendship  which  is  to  love 
"as  the  moonlight  to  the  sunlight."  She  had 
been  a  friend  to  me  when  friends  were  most 
precious  and  most  rare.  She  had  cared  for 
me  when  I  was  sick,  confided  in  me  always ; 
begged  for  me,  unasked  and  almost  unthanked, 
of  one  who  probably  despised  her  and  me  only 
all  the  more  for  it.  And  now  I  was  about  to 
lose  her ;  the  only  woman  from  whom  I  could 
expect  a  greeting  that  was  more  than  formal,  a 
glance  that  was  at  once  friendly  and  sincere. 
I  don't  say  that  this  made  me  sad.  I  know  I 
was  sincerely  glad  that  things  were  to  be  so; 
but  it  made  me  thoughtful.  I  was  moody 
enough  to  wish  to  be  alone  for  a  little  :  and  un- 
gallant  enough  to  get  gradually  rid  of  my  fair 
and  joyous  companion^  I  felt  a  twinge  of  re- 
morse at  the  recollection  when  I  came  the  oth- 
er day  upon  the  stone  which  bore  the  record  of 
her  name,  her  birth,  her  marriage,  her  death, 
and  the  inconsolable  grief  of  her  afflicted  hus- 
band— who  is  now  alive  and  merry  with  his 
third  wife. 

I  was  glad  to  be  alone.  I  stretched  myself 
on  the  grass.  The  evening  was  glowingly,  glo- 
riously hot.  I  heard  the  voices  of  singers  not 
far  away,  and  the  notes  of  a  piano.  I  saw  no- 
thing but  the  unflecked  sky  of  blue  above  my 
head,  and  the  slender  spiral  vapor  of  my  cigar. 
Was  I  happy  ?  Was  I  miserable  ?  Happy  or 
miserable,  those  moments  were  ecstatic.  Are 
not  the  sensations  produced  by  extreme  heat 
and  extreme  cold  so  much  alike  that  the  African 
brought  for  the  first  time  into  contact  with  snow 
fancies  it  has  burned  him  ?  I  think  there  are 
pangs  of  delight  and  of  pain — where  the  soul  is 
the  medium,  not  the  nerves — which  are  not  eas- 
ily to  be  distinguished  from  each  other. 

I  started  at  an  approaching  step.  Lilla  was 
close  beside  me  ;  she  looked  pale  and  much  dis- 
tressed. I  jumped  to  my  feet. 

"I  have  been  looking  for  you  every  where," 
she  said  ;  "  I  want  you  to  take  me  home." 

"Home  so  soon?  Are  you  going  home  al- 
ready?" 


80 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


"  Yes.  I  should  like  to,  very  much ;  if  yo 
don't  mind  leaving  so  early.  Or  I  will  wa 
longer,  as  long  as  you  like,  if  you  will  promis 
to  leave  a  little  before  the  rest,  and  to  com 
with  me." 

"Certainly,  Lilla,  when  you  please.  Bu 
where  is  Lambert  ?" 

"  Mr.  Lambert  ?     I  don't  know ;  at  least, 
saw  him  n6t  long  since." 

"  Will  Lambert  not  wish  to  see  you  home  ? 

"  If  yoif  can't  or  won't  come  with  me,  Eman 

uel,"  she  said,  petulantly,  "if  you  must  wait  o 

somebody  else,  of  course  I  must  not  worry  yo 

about  me." 

"Why,  Lilla,  my  dear  girl,  you  know  verj 
well  I  will  go  with  you  when  you  please.  Bu 
I  only  thought — " 

"Dear  Emanuel,  please  don't  think  an} 
thing;  at  least,  at  present.  Only  do  oblige 
me  this  once ;  I  am  so  tired,  and  I  want  to  ge 
away." 

"We  will  go  this  instant." 
"  Thank  you ;  that  is  kind.     And  I  should 
like  to  get  quietly  out,  quite  unnoticed,  if  yo 
please." 

"This  way,  then." 

I  gave  her  my  arm,  and  I  felt  her  arm  trem- 
ble on  mine ;  and  could  feel  that  her  bosom 
beat  heavily  as  she  leaned  on  me.  Violet  cir- 
cles were  round  her  eyes ;  and  every  time  she 
spoke  it  seemed  as  if  she  must  break  into  tears 
There  were  several  hansoms  at  the  door,  in 
which  some  of  our  company  had  come.  I  meant 
to  take  one  of  them,  and  convey  Lilla  home  in 
it.  Young  ladies  don't  usually  go  in  hansoms, 
I  believe,  with  young  men ;  that  is,  where  Re- 
spectability reigns.  We  had  no  such  etiquette 
in  our  free  and  gladsome*  world.  One  of  Lilla's 
special  delights  was,  or  used  to  be,  a  hansom. 
But  the  gardens  were  full  of  company. 
There  were  many  parties  there  as  well  as  ours. 
Lilla  and  I,  threading  our  way  outward,  were 
always  coming,  on  some  brilliant  group.  It 
was  significant  of  my  poor  young  friend's  state 
of  mind,  that  she  did  not  even  cast  a  scrutiniz- 
ing glance  at  the  dresses  of  the  ladies.  We 
hardly  spoke  at  all. 

I  brought  her  into  a  narrow  side-path  be- 
tween flowers  and  plants.  We  were  nearly 
out  now.  Toward  us  there  came  a  group  of 
four  or  five  ladies  and  gentlemen,  straggling 
along  as  the  width  of  the  path  allowed  them. 
One  voice  struck  on  my  ear,  and  I  knew  its 
sharp  and  strident  tone.  I  knew  it  to  be  the 
voice  of  Lilla's  uncle.  Eminently  disagreeable 
I  thought  such  a  meeting  would  be  in  a  place 
so  narrow  that  recognition  could  not  be  avoid- 
ed. It  was  now  too  late  to  go  back,  so  we 
drew  up  to  let  the  group  stream  by. 

Lilla  saw  her  uncle.  She  colored,  and  was 
a  little  confused.  He  did  not  seem  particu- 
larly delighted  at  the  meeting. 

"Why,  Lilla,  you  here?"  He  gave  her  his 
hand  rather  coldly. 

I  had  been  standing  silent  and  stiffly,  looking 
at  nothing  and  feeling  highly  uncomfortable. 


"  Yes,  uncle ;  but  I  am  going  away  now.     I 

have  asked  this  gentleman — don't  you  know 
Mr.. Temple,  uncle?— to  take  me  home." 

"  Indeed !  Yes.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Tern- 
pie?" 

I  made  a  formal  acknowledgment  of  his  en- 
forced salutation,  and  in  doing  so  I  became 
conscious  that  the  light  of  two  deep,  dark,  soft 
eyes  was  turned  full  on  me.  I  became  con- 
scious of  it— I  can  use  no  other  phrase— for  up 
to  this  moment  I  had  positively  seen  none  of 
the  group  but .  Mr.  Lyndon  alone,  and  had 
never  looked  at  the  lady  who  was  by  his  side, 
and  who  stopped  when  he  did.  But  I  felt  that 
the  light  of  those  eyes  was  on  me,  and  an  elec- 
trical thrill  ran  through  me,  with  which  the 
blood  rushed  heavily  and  fiercely  to  my  head, 
and  the  pulses  of  my  heart  seemed  to  stand 
still,  and  the  grass  for  a  moment  flickered  with 
changing  colors,  and  the  sinking  sun  appeared 
to  reel  in  the  sky. 

And  looking  up,  I  saw  that  Christina  Reich- 
stein  stood  before  me. 

Not  my  Lisette !  Not  my  Christina !  Beau- 
tiful, stately,  in  the  full  glow  of  developed  love- 
liness— no  longer  a  girl;  nay,  now  that  the 
westering  sunbeams  fell  upon  her  face,  I  saw 
that  there  was  something  even  of  the  melan- 
choly beauty  of  a  sunset  in  her  own  features 
and  expression.  Far  more  beautiful,  far  more 
stately,  far  more  attractive,  than  'when  I  knew 
her,  but  not  with  the  fresh  and  passionate 
youth  which  was  her  exquisite  charm  long 
ago.  Long  ago !  A  whole  life  seemed  to  lie 
between  that  time  and  this.  I  thought  there 
was  something  sad,  something  even  of  a  pre- 
maturely wasted  look  about  those  glorious 
eyes.  Youth,  and  early  love,  and  early  strug- 
le  lay  buried  in  those  lustrous  hollows.  They 
vere  as  mirrors  to  me,  in  which  I  saw  my  own 
dead  youth  and  disappointed  love.  I  turned 
oward  her,  and  our  eyes  met  and  rested  upon 
jach  other  in  an  instant  of  unspeakable  emo- 
ion  never  to  be  forgotten  in  this  world. 

Christina  recovered  her  composure  in  a  mo- 
ment.. 

"We  are  fortunate,  Mr.  Lyndon,"  she  said, 
n  her  clear  musical  voice,  with  the  old  dash 
'f  foreign  accent  still  perceptible  in  it — "we 
re  fortunate  in  not  having  left  so  soon  as  I 
,'ished ;  for  we  meet— at  least,  I  do— two  un- 
xpected  friends.  Your  niece  I  know  already, 
bough  she  seems  to  have  quite  forgotten  me  ; 
nd  in  this  gentleman  I  meet  a  very  old  friend." 

She  gave  her  hand  first  to  Lilla  and  then  to 
tie.  Not  the  lightest,  faintest  pressure  of  her 
love  indicated  to  me  that  I  was  any  thing  to 
er  but  an  old  acquaintance. 

Indeed!"  said  Mr.  Lyndon,  dryly.  "I  did 
ot  know  that  you  were  acquainted  with  this — 
h,  this — gentleman,  Mr.  Temple,  before." 

"Did  you  not?  Oh  yes;  we  were  old  ac- 
uaintances  ever  so  many  years  ago.  How  long 
go,  Mr.  Temple  ?" 

"Several  centuries  ago  at  least,  Madame 
eichstein." 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER, 


81 


WE   MEET   AGAIN. 


"  Yes ;  it  must  be  many,  many  centuries  ago," 
she  said,  slightly  shrugging  her  shoulders. 

"  A  good  way  of  evading  any  confession  of 
the  number  of  years,"  remarked  Mr.  Lyndon, 
with  a  short  dry  laugh.  "  If  you  are  going 
home,  Lilla,  I  think  you  had  better  come  with 
us." 

"  Thank  you,  uncle.     If  you  can  take  me,  I 


shall  be  very  glad  ;  and  then  Mr.  Temple  need 
not  be  dragged  away  to  take  care  of  me." 

"No;  we  need  not  trouble  Mr.  Temple  to 
leave  so  early.  Come,  Lilla." 

"Good-night,  Emanuel,"  said  Lilla,  holding 
out  her  hand  to  me.  "I  am  so  much  obliged 
to  you  for  offering  to  come  with  me ;  and  so 
glad  that  I  have  not  to  take  you  away." 


82 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


"Then  I  think  I  shall  not  go  just  yet,"  said 
Madame  Eeichstein.  "  I  will  go  in  Mrs.  Lev- 
ison's  carriage;  she  is  not  leaving  for  a  few 
minutes.  I  have  not  had  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing Mr.  Temple  for  so  many  years  that  I  can 
not  leave  him  now,  at  least  until  I  have  ex- 
changed a  few  words  with  him,  and  told  him 
how  and  when  he  may  see  me  again.  Wil 
you  give  me  your  arm,  Mr.  Temple  ?" 

I  offered  her  my  arm  without  a  word.  Lilla 
looked  at  us  both  with  wondering  eyes.  This 
was  a'll  the  wildest  of  mystery  to  her.  She  for- 
got for  a  moment  apparently  even  the  trouble 
that  was  oppressing  her,  in  the  surprise  of  see- 
ing this  unexpected  acquaintanceship  reveal 
itself. 

"Remember  you  promised  to  accept  a  seat 
in  my  carriage,"  said  Lyndon.  "We  are  in 
no  haste  ;  we  can  wait  as  long  as  you  please!" 
"  But  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  any  body  wait- 
ing for  me.  No,  Mr.  Lyndon ;  pray  excuse 
me  this  once.  Your  niece,  too,  looks  quite 
tired  and  ill,  and  I  think  the  sooner  you  take 
her  out  of  this  the  better." 

Lyndon  scowled  and  contracted  his  brow, 
and  looked  at  Lilla  as  if  he  could  have  found 
it  in  his  heart  to  say  something  rather  sharp  of 
her  illness,  and  her  presence,  and  her  existence 
altogether. 

"Oh,  Lilla's  very  well,"  he  snarled.— "Are 
you  not  ?" 

"Quite  well,  uncle.— I  am  quite  well,  in- 
deed, dear  Madame  Reichstein. 

"  You  don't  look  so,  child.  No,  you  must 
go  home,  dear ;  you  will  come  and  see  me,  will 
you  not?  I  have  scolded  your  uncle  before 
now  for  not  bringing  you  to  me.  Good-night, 
dear."  She  kissed  Lilla  quite  affectionatelv. 


self  driven   into  —  confusion,  embarrassment, 
constraint,  and  awkward  silence. 

My  throat  was  dry,  my  lips  were  parched ; 
the  trail  of  her  rustling  dress  along  the  walk 
was  the  only  sound  that  seemed  to  reach  my 
ears ;  the  fragrance  of  perfumes  came  faintly 
from  around  her ;  her  hand  rested  on  my  arm. 
I  did  not  venture  to  look  at  her  lest  I  should 
meet  her  eyes,  and,  stricken  by  them,  give  out 
my  soul  in  some  wild  outbreak  of  love  or  an- 
ger. 

"Emanuel!" 

The  word  came  up  low,  sweet,  and  thrilling 
to  my  ears.  It  pierced  my  heart.  It  seemed 
as  if  between  that  word  and  the  "Ade!"  I  had 
heard  her  call  from  the  window  years  and  years 
ago  there  was  only  an  utter  void. 
Emanuel!" 

Madame — Madame  Reichstein." 
No ;   not  that  name,  Emanuel.      Call  me 
)y  the  name  you  always  gave  me — long  ago. 


— "Good -night,  Mr.  Lyndon,  and  thafik  you 
very  much." 

"Good -night.  But  you  will  be  at  Mrs. 
Levison's  to-night,  will  you  not  ?" 

"Really,  I  had  quite  forgotten.  Oh  yes, 
certainly  — at  least,  I  think  so.  Au  revoir, 
then." 

Mr.  Lyndon  saluted  me  very  slightly  and 
formally,  and  I  saw  him  cast  an  appealing,  dis- 
appointed, impatient  glance  at  Christina.  It 
was  vain,  however.  She  bowed  graciously, 
smiled  sweetly,  and  then  turned  and  led  me 
away. 

All  this  time  I  was  like  one  paralyzed  of 
speech.  Not  even  that  fiercest  stimulus  a 
man's  power  of  self-control  can  receive,  the 
consciousness  that  he  is  making  himself  ridicu- 
lous, could  spur  me  to  the  mastery  of  my  feel- 
ings and  the  faculty  of  unmeaning  talk.  *  Late- 
ly, when  it  had  become  apparently  certain  that 
I  must  some  time,  and  that  soon,  meet  Chris- 
tina, I  had  rehearsed  over  and  over  again  the 
manner  in  which  I  should  demean  myself. 
Sometimes  it  was  to  be  a  dignified  and  haughty 
coldness,  sometimes  an  air  of  polite,  genial, 
easy  indifference.  But  the  one  way  in  which  I 
was  never  on  any  account  to  greet  her  for  the 
first  time  was  just  that  which  I  now  found  mv- 


That  at  least  is  mine  still." 
"Christina!" 

"  Yes.     I  am  still  Christina.     You  must  not 
hink  harshly  of  me,  Emanuel." 
"I  do  not.     Heaven  knows  I  do  not. " 
"You  can  not  judge  me,. and  you  must  not 
attempt  to  do  so.     I  know  by  your  manner  now 
that  you  think  I  have  injured  you." 

"Think  you  have  injured  me!  Think!  I 
look  back  on  so  many  years  of  a  life  worse  ten 
times  than  any  death,  and  you  wonder  whether 
I  think  you  have  injured  me !" 

"Emanuel,  if  we  begin  reproaching,  I  too 
have  something  to  reproach.  If  we  begin  talk- 
ing of  years  of  suffering,  do  you  think  life  has 
been  all  a  pleasure  and  a  joy  to  me?  If  you 
were  disappointed,  was  not  I?  If  you  were 
deceived,  was  not  I  ?" 

"By  me,  Christina?  Never.  I— I— loved 
you,  you  only,  and  with  all  my  soul — " 

"Hush,  hush,  my  friend,  no  more  of  that. 
No,  not  one  word.  All  that  is  dead  and  gone 
long  ago.  Let  it  sleep.  Why  should  we  be- 
gin raking  up  the  past,  and  reproaching  each 
other,  and  making  each  other  miserable?  I 
did  not  wish  or  mean  to  do  so.  I  wished  that 
we  should  meet  like  old  friends  long  separated, 
who  are  friends  in  heart  still.  I  have  heard  of 
your  success,  Emanuel,  and  I  congratulate  you. 
[  heard  of  it  but  now  in  Italy,  where,  look  you, 
you  have  friends.  Greater  success  too  you  will 
have  yet.  I  was  not  surprised ;  I  always  knew 
it.  And  me— look  at  me.  Well,  I  have  not 
failed." 

"No.  You  have  indeed  succeeded.  You, 
Christina,  ^have  realized  your  highest  dreams ; 
you  have  all  you  ever  longed  or  prayed  for." 

"  And  you  envy  me,  perhaps  ?  And  look 
coldly  at  me  ?  And  wonder  why  I  have  suc- 
ceeded so  much  better  than  others  ?  And  will  • 
join  with  my  enemies  in  finding  defects,  and 
blaming  the  prejudiced  public  which  overrates? 
No;  I  do  not  think  you  would  do  that.  That 
would  not  be  like  you." 

"Christina,  that  you  could  even  suggest  it 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


shows  that  you  do  not  know  me.  But,  indeed, 
you  never  did." 

"  Did  I  not  ?  But  we  will  not  talk  of  that. 
Well,  then,  I  have  succeeded ;  and  you  are  just 
on  the  verge  of  full  success.  They  tell  me  we 
are  to  sing  together  soon." 

"  So  they  tell  me." 

"Yes,  I  believe  so;  I  suppose  it  will  be. 
In  fact,  I  will  have  it  so,  although  Mr.  Lyndon 
does  not  seem  much  to  like  it." 

"What  right  of  judgment  has  he?" 

"Well,  you  know  the  right  he  has" — and 
she  shrugged  her  shoulders — "the  right  of  the 
man  with  the  money  who  stands  quietly  in  the 
shadow  behind  the  manager  whose  name  is  on 
the  bill.  That  right  he  has.  But  to  me  it 
matters  little ;  I  have  my  own  way,  or — " 

"  Mr.  Lyndon  is  a  close  friend  of  yours  ?" 

"I  suppose  so.  I  have  a  great  many  close 
friends,  and  I  hope  I  value  them  all  exactly  as 
they  deserve.  You  look  coldly  and  strangely 
at  me,  Emanuel,"  she  said,  suddenly  changing 
her  tone  of  flippancy  and  cynicism,  for  the  old 
friendly  pathetic  voice,  "and  you  seem  as  if 
you  too  would  judge  me  only  by  words,  and 
ways,  and  ^externals.  If  you  will,  I  tell  you 
frankly  beforehand  that  you  will  judge  me 
harshly — as,  perhaps,  others  do — and  you  will 
judge  me  wrongly,  and  I  shall  be  disappointed. 
Do  not ;  oh,  do  not !  We  shall  have  to  see 
each  other  much  in  the  future,  and  I  should 
like  dearly  to  have  one  friend  and  brother." 

Voices  were  close  behind  us ;  and  I  heard 
Madame  Reichstein's  name  mentioned  as  if  she 
were  sought  for. 

"This  way,  Emanuel,  please;  I  see  my 
friends,  and  I  must  go  with  them.  Is  it  not  all 
like  a  dream  that  we  have  met  again  ?  Thank 
you,  Mr.  Temple ;  you  will  come  and  see  me  ? 
— Now,  dear  Mrs.  Levison. — Good -night,  Mr. 
Temple." 

She  gave  me  her  hand,  and  said  in  a  lower 
tone,  "Good-night,  Emanuel;"  and  left  me. 

I  sauntered  vacuously  back  into  the  garden. 
My  brain  was  all  in  a  whirl.  I  put  between  my 
lips  the  cigar  long  since  extinguished,  and  was 
for  a  while  unconscious  that  it  did  not  burn. 
A  sense  of  disappointment  mingled  with  all  the 
confused  feelings  that  came  up  in  my  mind. 
The  Christina  I  had  found  was  not  like  the 
Christina  I  had  lost.  Something  of  sharpness, 
of  worldliness,  of  flippancy,  seemed  in  her  which 
jarred  and  grated  on  me ;  and  yet  now  and 
then  some  word  or  tone  brought  back  all  the 
old  memories,  the  ideal  Christina,  the  strong 
love.  I  tried  to  remember  and  dwell  on  only 
the  one  delicious,  pathetic  sound  which  came 
from  her  lips  when  she  spoke  my  name,  'and  to 
put  aside  all  association  of  her  with  the  com- 


*mon  world — with  Lyndon's  coarse  and  purse- 
proud  ways,  with  the  kind  of  society  in  which 
Lyndon  strove  to  be  a  dictator,  with  the  paltry 
spites  of  cliques  and  the  mean  jealousies  of 
rivals.  I  tried  to  do  this ;  I  did  my  best  to  suc- 
ceed ;  but  the  sense  of  disappointment  outlived 
my  efforts. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A   BREAKING-UP. 

I  DID  not  want  to  meet  Lambert  or  any  of 
my  friends  any  more  that  night ;  I  had  no  mo- 
tive for  wishing  to  be  home  early ;  I  had  no 
motive,  indeed,  for  wishing  to  do  any  thing,  ex- 
cept to  get  away  from  just  the  place  where  I 
was :  so  I  lighted  a  cigar  and  took  to  the  road. 
I  walked  from  Richmond,  choosing  all  the  by- 
ways and  cii'cuitous  complicated  "short-cuts" 
that  could  well  be  found,  so  that  by  the  time  I 
arrived  in  town  I  was  pretty  well  tired.  I 
looked  into  a  theatre,  and  found  it  very  dull ; 
I  dropped  into  a  small  and  modest  club  of  art- 
ists and  journalists  and  young  authors,  of  which 
I  had  lately  become  a  member,  and  listened  to 
some  of  the  ordinary  gabble  in  the  smoking- 
room,  about  this  man's  piece  and  that  man's 
novel,  and  this  other's  overdone  "business"  in 
the  comic  part,  and  somebody  else's  anger  at 
the  malignity  of  the  critics,  who  don't  see  the 
merit  of  his  wife's  novel,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
kind  of  thing  which  one  hears  in  such  a  place. 
It  was  weary,  or  I  was  weary,  and  I  hardly 
talked  to  any  body. 

At  last  it  grew  late,  and  I  went  home.  I  had 
resolved  to  stay  out  long  enough  to  be  certain 
that  I  should  find  nobody  stirring ;  I  was  dis- 
appointed, however.  There  were  lights  in  the 
little  parlor ;  I  let  myself  in  with  my  latch-key, 
and  would  have  gone  up  stairs,  if  I  could,  Avith- 
out  seeing  any  body.  As  I  passed  the  parlor- 
door,  however,  Lilla's  voice  called  me  ;  I  went 
in,  and  found  her  looking  very  pale  and  weary 
and  sad.  She  was  still  in  the  dress  she  had 
worn  that  day  at  Richmond. 

"Not  in  bed  yet,  Lilla?" 

"Not  yet;  I  have  been  waiting  up  partly  to 
see  you.  Mamma  is  up  too.  I  am  going  away 
to-morrow,  Emanuel." 

"  Going  away !     Going  where  ?" 

"I  am  going  to  Paris.  I  am  going  to  have 
a  hand  in  a  school  there — in  a  kind  of  partner- 
ship with  a  person  I  know,  a  very  clever  sort  of 
woman,  a  Miss  Whitelocke,  who  took  quite  a 
liking  to  me,  and  has  a  very  good  opinion  of 
my  capacity — no  great  proof  of  her  cleverness 
is  that,  certainly." 

"  But  this  is  very  sudden  ;  you  never  spoke  a 
word  to  me  of  this  before." 

"No.  Because  nothing  was  certain,  and  I 
hadn't  made  up  my  mind ;  and  we  both  have 
our  secrets,  Mr.  Temple,  have  we  not?  You 
always  spoke  of  me  as  your  sister,  Emanuel ; 
but  you  seem  to  have  kept  something  from  me 
which  you  would  not  have  kept  from  your  sis- 
ter, and  you  allowed  me  once  to  exhibit  myself 
in  a  very  ridiculous  light. " 

"Lilla,  my  dear  girl,  indeed  there  was  no- 
thing to  tell.  I  did  not  know  myself  who  she 
was ;  who  Madame — " 

"I  don't  want  to  know  your  secrets,  Eman- 
uel, and  don't  look  put  out  about  it,  for  I  am 
not  at  all  angry,  and  I  think  you  showed 
only  your  good  sense  in  not  trusting  so  silly 


84 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


a  creature  as  I  have  always  proved  myself  to 


be. 

"Indeed,  indeed,  Lilla,  you  don't  understand 
me ;  you  can't  understand  why  I  could  not  be 
as  frank  with  you  as  I  could  have  wished  to 
be." 

"  Please  let  us  not  talk  any  more  of  that  just 
now.  I  am  going  away,  Emanuel ;  I  must  go 
from  this  place.  I  must  try  to  do  something 
for  my  mother,  and  make  a  home  for  her.  Oh, 
she  has  need  of  every  help,  and  she  has  no  one 
but  me — no  one.  Every  one  despises  her — and 
us  both — and  I  don't  wonder." 

"Your  uncle,  Lilla;  does  he  know?" 
"My  uncle?  Yes,  he  does.  He  scolded  me 
to-day,  and — and  told  me  we  were  a  disgrace 
to  him ;  and  so  we  are.  And  do  you  know 
what  he  offered,  Emanuel  ?  He  offered  to  take 
me  into  his  house  and  keep  me  like  a  lady — 
like  one  of  his  own  daughters,  he  said — if  I 
would  leave  my  mother,  and  promise  not  to  see 
her  any  more,  except  once  a  month,  or  some- 
thing of  that  kind.  My  poor  dear,  loving,  fool- 
ish old  mother !  She  has  made  a  slave  of  her- 
self all  her  life  for  me ;  and  little  return  I  ever 
gave  her." 

"What  did  you  tell  him?" 
"  Well,  I  told  him  what  he  will  remember. 
I  flashed  out  upon  him,  and  told  him  just  what 
I  felt ;  not  a  word  did  I  spare.  I  told  him  I 
scorned  his  money  and  his  kindness,  and  that, 
please  God,  I  would  stand  by  my  mother  while 
she  lived ;  and  I  am  afraid  I  added  that  per- 
haps some  day  one  of  his  own  daughters  might 
be  invited  to  leave  him,  and  might  give  a  differ- 
ent answer  from  mine.  He  was  quite  white 
with  anger.  I  didn't  care— I  don't  care.  I 
am  glad  I  spoke  out ;  it  did  me  good ;  perhaps 
it  will  do  him  good." 

"  Lilla,  I  always  thought  you  had  a  fine,  no- 
ble nature ;  now  I  know  it." 

"  Noble  nature !  nonsense.  I  am  not  going 
to  desert  my  poor  mother — now  especially — 
that's  all.  But  I  waited  up  to  tell  you  all  this ; 
and  I  want  you  not  to  say  any  thing  to  her 
about  the  condition  my  uncle  offered,  for  I 
haven't  told  her  that ;  she  would  worry  me  to 
death,  poor  soul,  about  sacrificing  myself,  and 
stuff.  And  I  want  you  to  back  me  up ;  to  say 
that  every  thing  I  do  is  right  and  wise,  and  for 
the  best,  and  all  that.  You  will  do  this,  Eman- 
uel, like  a  kind,  dear  fellow,  will  you  not? 
And  don't  speak  of  any  thing  else,  any  thing 
you  may  know  or  guess,  or  that— Oh,  you  must 
understand  me ;  but  just  tell  her  you  think  I  am 
doing  the  most  sensible  thing  possible  in  going 
to  Paris."  '  , 

"But,  Lilla,  tell  me— do  let  me  ask  you— 
why  are  you  doing  this  ?     Do  confide  in  me. 
You  may  do  so;  I  know  all." 
"  All  ?"  she  said,  flushing  up. 
"  Yes,  my  dear,  all.     I  know,  for  instance, 
what  happened  to-day.     I  knew  it  was  coming. 
Now,  why  can  you  not  stay  and  make  Ned  Lam- 
bert— that  true-hearted,  manly,  clever  fellow — 
as  happy  as  he  asks  to  be  ?" 


"Emanuel,  you  have  said  you  know  all. 
If  so,  you  know  my  reason.  I  can  not  bring 
disgraceful  vexation  on  Edward  Lambert ;  and 
to  marry  me  just  now  would  bring  disgrace  on 
any  man.  Oh,  I  am  so  unhappy,  so  wretched ; 
and  I  have  been  crying  all  the  evening.  I  have 
been  silly  and  deceived  all  my  life  through,  and 
filled  up  with  foolish  and  false  notions  and  ex- 
pectations ;  and  at  last  I  know  the  whole  truth. 
It  is  enough  to  crush  any  one."  And  the  poor 
girl  burst  into  tears. 

"Have  you  told  Lambert  your  reason,"  I 
asked;  "the  reason  of  your  leaving  Lon- 
don ?" 

"  I  have  not,  I  have  not ;  and  I  am  ashamed 
to  say  that  I  have  still  idle  pride  enough  left  in 
me  to  conceal  the  truth  from  him." 

"But  really,  Lilla,  I  must  ask  you — is  the 
thing  so  bad  as  all  this  ?  Are  you  not  far  too 
sensitive?  You  can't  suppose  Ned  Lambert 
could  be  affected  for  a  moment  in  his  feelings 
toward  you  by  the  fact  that — "  I  stopped, 
rather  embarrassed.  What  was  I  to  say  of  her 
father?  This,  of  course,  was  the  obstacle  and 
the  disgrace  of  which  she  had  spoken. 

"No,  Emanuel,  I  don't.  Ah,  L,know  him 
too  well ;  and  for  that  very  reason  I  will  not 
allow  him  to  be  victimized." 

"But  would  you  not  allow  him  to  judge  for 
himself?" 

"No,  Emanuel,  no,  no.  Don't  speak  of  it 
to  me ;  pray  don't.  And,  oh,  I  beseech  of  you, 
I  implore  of  you,  don't  tell  him !  Don't  let  us 
seem  disgraceful  in  his  eyes.  Listen :  I  have 
not  been  brought  up  well,  Emanuel ;  I  need  not 
tell  you  that.  I  have  not  been  made  to  care 
much  for  truth  and  religion,  and  any  thing  oft 
that  sort ;  and  I  am  not  religious,  or  particu- 
larly good ;  but  somehow  I  never  did  see  this 
so  plainly  as  of  late,  when  I  came  to  contrast 
myself  with  others— and  with  him.  I  don't  think 
I  should  have  been  fit  for  Edward  Lambert  at 
my  very  best.  I  don't  think  poor  mother  and 
myself  are  much  the  sort  of  people  to  make  a 
very  delightful  home  for  so  good  and  noble  a 
man.  But  this  last  thing  I  have  come  to  know 
has  decided  me.  Emanuel,  have  you  seen  my 
father?" 

"  I  have.     I  have  known  him  for  some  time." 
"  And  known  who  he  was  ?" 
"Yes,  Lilla." 

"  Yes.  And  you  kept  it  to  yourself,  because 
you  did  not  wish  to  shame  me  ?" 

"  No,  Lilla ;  because  I  did  not  -wish  to  pain 
you  when  there  seemed  no  need  of  it,  or  no  good 
likely  to  come  of  your  knowing  it.  It  does  not 
shame  you;  it  can  not."  ' 

"  Not  in  your  eyes,  perhaps,  for  3^0  u  know  us ; 
and  you  know  it  is  no  fault  of  ours-5— at  least,  of 
mine.     Not  in  your  eyes." 
"Nor,  surely,  in  his." 

"Oh  no,  no;  I  know  that.  But  it  would 
bring  on  him  endless  vexation  and  humiliation ; 
and  I  should  be  a  scandal  to  him,  even  though 
he  did  not  say  it,  or  think  it ;  and  I  can  not 
bring  him  or  myself  to  such  a  pass.  I  could 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


85 


bring  him  nothing  but  disgrace,  and  that  I  won't  I 
bring  him ;  I  think  too  highly  of  him.  I  feel 
that  I  am  doing  right ;  and  I  think  it  is  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  ever  resolved  upon  doing  any 
thing  just  because  it  was  right.  I  have  been 
silly  and  frivolous  enough ;  but  I  have  my  feel- 
ings, Emanuel,  and  my  sense  of  honor,  and  my 
pride,  like  other  people." 

"Lilla,  my  own,"  called  her  mother's  voice 
from  below,  "it  is  late,  my  dear,  and  you  ought 
to  be  in  bed." 

"Yes,  mother,  I  dare  say  I  ought;  and  ac- 
cordingly I  am  not." 

Lilla  was  going  to  make — nay,  had  actually 
made,  and  in  very  spirited  fashion,  too — a  great 
sacrifice  for  her  mother ;  but  she  could  not  keep 
from  occasionally  snubbing  her.  Good  Mrs. 
Lyndon  was  sometimes  a  trying  dispensation  to 
a  quick,  impatient  young  woman ;  indeed,  she 
was  one  of  those  good  people  who  seem  made 
to  be  snubbed. 

She  came  up  herself  presently,  looking  very 
shaky  and  flustered. 

"  We're  going  away ;  we're  all  breaking-up, 
Emanuel,"  she  said,  looking  inquiringly  at  me. 
"Lilla's  going  in  the  morning." 

"I  know,  Mrs.  Lyndon." 

"It  seems  sudden,  don't  it?  And  we  were 
just  getting  all  to  rights  here,*after  such  trou- 
ble and  difficulty  and  work.  But  Lilla  thinks 
it's  for  the  best." 

"Yes,  mamma;  we've  argued  the  point  al- 
ready quite  enough,  I  think." 

"  She  won't  give  in  to  her  uncle,  Emanuel ; 
although  you  know  that  he's  been  so  good  to 
her." 

"Stuff,  mamma!  Now  do  stop,  there's  a 
good  woman." 

"And  you've  heard  something  else,  Emanu- 
el?—Have  you  told  him,  Lilly?" 

"Oh  yes,  mamma — yes." 

"She's  refused  him,  although  he  is  so  good 
and  kind,  and  so  fond  of  her.  Of  course  he  is 
not  what  I  should  have  liked,  and  what  I  should 
once  have  thought  only  right  and  proper  for  Lilla 
to  have.  She  ought  to  be  a  lady,  and  of  course 
Mr.  Lambert  isn't  the  sort  of  a  person  one  had  a 
right  to  expect.  Oh  dear,  there  was  a  time  when, 
if  any  one  had  told  me  that  a  person  in  his  posi- 
tion would  have  thought  of  asking  my  Lilla  to 
marry  him,  I  shouldn't  have  thought  he  could 
be  in  his  senses — I  shouldn't  indeed!  But  you 
know,  after  all,  people  must  yield  to  their  cir- 
cumstances ;  and  what  I  say  is,  I  never  knew  a 
better  or  more  worthy  young  man — and  doing 
so  well,  too.  I  do  think  it's  a  pity ;  but  Lilla's 
so  willful." 

"I  suppose  I  was  always  willful,  mamma, 
wasn't  I  ?" 

"Yes,  my  own,  that  you  were;  and  such  a 
troublesome  girl,  many  a  time." 

"Yet  you  were  always  fond  of  me,  you  dear 
old  woman." 

"  Fond  of  you,  my  love  ?  Ah,  fond  is  no 
name  for  it!" 

"Well,  then,  you  will  continue  to  be  fond  of 


me  still,  though  I  am  much  more  willful  now 
than  ever.  Besides,  if  I  was  always  so,  it  isn't 
much  use  trying  to  be  any  thing  else  now. 
'  What's  bred  in  the  bone,'  mother ;  and  all  the 
rest  of  it." 

Lilla  was  doing  her  best  to  carry  it  lightly, 
saucily  off.  The  effort  was  not  very  success- 
ful. 

' '  Have  you  advised  at  all  with  Mr.  Temple, 
Lilla?"  And  the  mother  threw  an  appealing 
glance  at  me. 

"  I  have,  mamma."  And  the  daughter  threw 
an  appealing  glance  at  me. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Lyndon,  I  have  talked  with  Lil- 
la. I  did  at  first  speak  to  her  as  you  have 
done ;  that  is,  to  something  like  the  same  ef- 
fect. I  did  think  she  might  have  married  poor 
Ned  Lambert  at  once,  instead  of  postponing  it. 
But  I  must  say  that  she  has  spoken  to  me  in  a  way 
which  shows  me  that  she  has  clear  and  strong 
reasons,  and  a  feeling  that  we  must  not  try  to 
counteract.  You  must  let  her  have  her  way, 
Mrs.  Lyndon.  I  think  we  may  trust  her  that 
she  is  guided  right ;  and  I  hope  and  believe  I 
shall  see  her  and  you,  and  Ned  Lambert  too, 
happy,  quite  happy,  before  long." 

"If  it  please  God,"  said  Mrs.  Lyndon,  with 
a  half  querulous  sigh,  which  seemed  to  say  that 
one  couldn't  always  rely  upon  Providence  to  do 
exactly  the  sort  of  thing  one  wanted. 

"You  don't  mean  to  see  him  again,  Lilla?"  I 
said,  turning  back  as  I  was  about  to  leave  them 
for  the  night ;  "  not  in  the  morning,  before  you 
go?" 

"  Oh  no,  Emanuel ;  it  would  do  no  good.  I 
don't  want  him  to  know  until  after  I  am  gone. 
You  will  give  him  this  little  packet,  please,  from 
me ;  it's  only  a  poor  little  keepsake ;  and  you 
may  tell  him,  if  you  like,  how  sorry  I  was  for 
going ;  and  you  will  put  it  in  the  best  light  you 
can,  and  make  him  see  that  it  can't  be  helped. 
And  you  may  tell  him,  if  you  like,  of  my  grat- 
itude to  him,  and — and — of  my  unchanging 
love." 

She  fairly  broke  down  at  last  into  sobs,  and 
signed  for  me  to  leave  her. 

I  left  her  with  deep  regret,  and  sympathy, 
and  pity.  I  confess  it  seemed  to  me  that  she 
was  making  a  needless  and  Quixotic  sacrifice ; 
but  from  her  point  of  view  what  she  was  doing 
was  clearly  right,  and  I  could  not  but  admire 
the  quiet,  resolute  spirit  with  which  she  had 
chosen  her  way  and  walked  whither  it  led  her. 
I  felt  in  this  regard  a  thorough  admiration  for 
her.  A  sort  of  pariah  myself,  I  always  feel  a 
special  and  natural  pride  in  any  brave  good 
deed  done  by  one  of  my  caste.  It  is  the  'busi- 
ness and  the  inheritance  of  the  Brahmins  to  be 
brave  and  good,  and  to  think  no  little  of  their 
own  bravery  and  goodness ;  and  they  do  Hot 
want  the  admiration  of  such  as  I  am.  But 
when  the  courage  and  virtue  are  shown  by  one 
of  those  from  whom  we  do  not  expect  any  thing 
of  the  kind,  then  I  am  inclined  to  wave  my  cap 
and  cheer.  We  hear  of  all  sorts  of  self-sacrifice 
in  books,  and  even  in  real  life ;  some  of  it  of  a 


86 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


very  stony,  implacable,  and  self-tormenting  kind, 
which  I  at  least  can  not  find  it  in  my  heart  ei- 
ther to  love  or  pity,  but  only  shudder  at,  and  pray 
to  be  kept  forever  out  of  the  presence  of  its  si- 
lent icy  rebuke  and  self-assertion.  Self-sacri- 
fice is  indeed  the  model  and  pet  virtue  of  the 
age ;  and  some  of  us  are  always  inclined  to  re- 
bel against  models  and  pets.  Moreover,  it  is  al- 
most always  exhibited  by  somebody  from  whom 
it  is  naturally  to  be  expected — the  noblesse  of 
whose  virtue,  personal  and  inherited,  obliges 
its  owner  to  such  deeds  of  devotion ;  it  is. done 
under  the  impulse  of  lofty  religious  inspii'ings, 
it  is  preached  up  by  good  and  authorized  preach- 
ers, it  is  sanctified  with  holy  texts,  it  is  illu- 
mined and  encouraged  by  hopes  of  everlasting 
reward,  and  the  eternal  society  of  harps  and 
seraphs.  My  poor  little  London  pagan  had  no 
such  stimulants  and  encouragements.  Her  sac- 
rifice was  not  made  as  a  slave  performs  a  duty, 
or  as  a  courtier  denies  himself  now  that  he  may 
have  the  greater  thanks  hereafter.  It  was  al- 
together the  impulse  of  native  honor  and  noble- 
ness and  love — above  all,  love.  It  thought  of 
no  reward,  here  or  beyond  ;  it  was  all  sacrifice. 
It  was  foolish,  perhaps,  in  one  sense ;  but  there 
are  some  of  us  in  whose  eyes  even  Virtue  looks 
most  attractive  when  she  is  a  little  irregular 
and  unorthodox  in  her  ways. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
"THOU   HAST  IT,  ALL!" 

So  our  dreams  had  come  true  at  last ;  our 
wildest  hopes  had  been  realized.  We  had  both 
succeeded.  Christina  and  I  sang  together  dur- 
ing the  remainder  of  that  season  at  the  best 
house.  She  was  the  great  success  and  idol  of 
the  hour  ;  I  was,  in  my  own  way,  a  success  too 
— greater  than  I  had  ever  expected.  Just  think 
of  the  changes  time  had  worked  for  me  with 
unthought-of  liberality.  Only  a  little  while  ago 
I  was  poor — horribly,  bitterly  poor ;  a  man  to 
whom  the  fare  of  a  hansom  was  an  expense  to 
be  avoided  and  fought  against.  Now  I  had, 
for  a  bachelor,  plenty  of  money,  and  spent  sov- 
ereigns heedlessly  where  even  two  years  ago  I 
dared  not  lay  out  shillings.  Now  I  had  a  name 
that  was  known  pretty  well  every  where — that 
is,  where  people  talk  about  singing.  Now  I 
was  once  more  restored  to  the  society  of  Chris- 
tina. We  sang  together ;  our  names  were  con- 
stantly and  of  necessity  coupled.  I  saw  her  al- 
most every  night.  We  were  applauded  togeth- 
er ;  I  led  her  before  the  curtain  at  every  recall ; 
I  gathered  up  her  bouquets  for  her.  On  the 
stage  I  was  always  associated  with  her  ;  off  the 
st^ge  I  could  see  her  when  I  pleased.  We 
were  now  in  very  reality  swimming  together, 
and  side  by  side — the  success  we  used  to  dream 
of  and  rave  about  years  ago. 

Was  ever  mortal  so  blessed  of  the  gods  as  I  ? 

Let  me  answer  in  a  sentence.  My  life  was 
unhappy,  and  I  was  sinking  every  day  in  my 


own  estimation  deeper  and  deeper.     I  was  be- 
coming demoralized. 

I  have  already  said  that  during  my  long  sep- 
aration from  Christina  her  memory  was  my 
preservation  from  any  thing  mean  or  low  or  de- 
grading. How  did  it  happen  that  association 
with  her  now  seemed  to  produce  just  the  op- 
posite effect  ? 

To  begin  with,  I  could  not  any  longer  under- 
stand either  her  or  myself.  She  was  no  longer 
"my  Lisette.  All  the  freshness  of  her  nature 
appeared  to  have  been  washed  away.  Her  soul 
seemed  somehow  to  have  contracted  ;  the  brand 
of  the  world  was  on  her.  The  bloom  was  off 
her  cheek,  and,  as  I  believed,  off  her  heart. 
Yet  she  fascinated  me  as  she  did  others ;  and  I 
clung  to  her,  and  walked  in  her  shadow,  and 
was  unhappy  without  her,  and  unhappy  and  dis- 
appointed with  her. 

Except  when  on  the  stage.  There,  and  only 
there,  I  saw  my  Christina.  I  have  avoided, 
and  shall  avoid,  a  cold  and  lengthened  descrip- 
tion of  her  as  a  singer  and  an  actress.  But  she 
delighted  me,  and,  I  could  have  almost  said, 
she  surprised  me.  Her  voice  was  as  it  had  al- 
ways been,  more  remarkable  perhaps  for  its 
clear,  bright,  vibrating  strength  than  for  the 
softer  and  sweeter  tones  ;  but  the  great  charm 
about  her  was  Ahe  perfect  unity  and  harmony 
of  her  acting  and  her  singing.  She  did  not 
quite  belong  to  that  grand  and  classical  line  of 
singers  which  seems  for  the  present  to  have 
closed  with  Grisi ;  neither  had  she  any  thing  in 
common  with  the  school  of  the  pretty  musical 
humming-top,  the  warbling  butterfly,  which  is 
just  now  our  pet  ideal.  Her  voice  and  her 
style  expressed  romantic,  not  classic,  passion 
and  love  and  tragedy.  She  was  always  a  wo- 
man; never  a  goddess.  But  her  whole  soul 
was  infused  into  what  she  sung.  She  was  to 
the  grand  classic  singers  what  Victor  Hugo  is 
to  Racine.  Into  mere  piquancy  and  prettiness 
she  never  degenerated. 

I  admired  her  greatly,  wholly.  In  every 
thing  she  did  there  was  the  unmistakable  pres- 
ence of  genius.  But  when  I  strove  to  criticise 
her  calmly,  putting  myself  into  the  position,  as 
well  as  I  could,  of  the  average  public,  and 
asked  myself,  "Will  her  fame  last?"  I  was 
forced  to  reply,  "I  do  not  think  so." 

In  the  first  place,  she  was  not  careful  of  her 
voice.  She  exerted  its  powers  with  a  gener- 
ous carelessness,  a  splendid  indiscretion.  Each 
time  she  appeared  on  the  stage  she  seemed 
to  have  said  to  herself,  "  This  night  I  will  do 
my  very  best,  no  matter  what  my  state  of 
health  or  strength :  let  to-morrow  care  for  it- 
self." 

But,  again,  I  doubted  for  the  permanence  of 
her  noble,  natural,  thrilling  style  in  its  hold  on 
public  favor.  It  was  not  the  lofty,  the  god- 
dess-like, the  terrible,  which  made  other  great 
singers  irresistible  in  their  power;  and  it  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  saucy  fascinations  and 
joyous  little  nightingale  trillings  which  set  vul- 
gar audiences,  no  matter  how  high  their  social 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


87 


rank,  into  ecstasies.     There  was  neither  terror 
nor  trick  about  it. 

It  was  difficult  for  me  to  criticise  even  thus 
far,  for  I  hung  upon  her  voice  and  her  success 
es  like  the  most  devoted  lover.  The  first  time 
we  sang  together  I  was  almost  indifferent  abou 
my  own  success,  so  completely  was  I  wrappec 
up  in  hers. 

On  the  stage,  then,  she  was  all  I  could  have 
expected,  the  very  danger  which  I  feared  for 
her  coming  only  from  the  truth  and  integrity 
of  her  artistic  genius.  But  the  moment  she 
ceased  to  be  a  lyric  queen  and  became  Chris- 
tina Reichstein — I  could  hardly  now  call  her, 
even  to  myself,  Christina  Braun — she  disap- 
pointed me  while  she  most  fascinated  me. 
had  to  go  away  from  her  in  order  to  bring  the 
true  Christina  back  into  my  mind. 

She  coquetted  with  any  body — every  body 
who  paid  her  homage — with,  for  a  long  time, 
one  exception,  myself.  Of  course  I  hung  on  to 
her  like  an  idiot ;  I  did  indeed  still  passionate- 
ly love  her ;  but  it  was  a  long  time  before  one 
glance  of  encouragement  invited  me  on.  Un- 
derstand that  this  in  itself  was  often  to  me  a 
flattering  and  a  maddening  incitement.  She 
seemed,  I  sometimes  thought,  to  hold  me  apart 
from  all  the  rest — seemed  to  say,  "  I  may  flirt 
with  others  and  play  with  them,  but  not  with 
you.  We  stand  on  different  ground.  We  must 
be  lovers— or  nothing."  I  now  believe  Chris- 
tina acted  in  this  from  a  high  deliberate  motive ; 
I  do  believe  she  thought  the  memory  of  our 
past  too  sacred  to  be  profaned  by  any  contact 
with  the  commonplace  and  frivolous  flirtations 
in  which  it  was  sometimes  her  humor  to  in- 
dulge. Then  I  thought,  according  to  my  mood, 
that  she  was  resolved  to  repel  me  utterly,  or  re- 
solved to  make  me  her  slave  ;  and  I  sometimes 
adored  and  sometimes  hated  her. 

Perhaps  I  might  have  taken  heart  of  grace 
and  broken  loose  altogether  from  her,  and  stood 
up  and  been  free,  but  for  the  expression  with 
which  I  sometimes — only  sometimes  —  caught 
her  eye  resting  on  mine.  Old,  sweet,  sad  mem- 
ories seemed  to  shine  in  it,  and  to  bring  our 
hearts  together  for  the  moment  once  again. 
This  happened  more  often  when  we  were  on  the 
stage  than  at  any  other  time.  Always  the  mo- 
ment my  eye  thus  met  hers  she  turned  away, 
and  her  expression  and  manner  changed  ;  and 
when  next  I  met  her  she  was  sure  to  be  colder 
than  ever  to  me,  and  perhaps  to  be  more  osten- 
tatiously friendly  than  ever  to  somebody  else 
whom  I  especially  disliked.  There  were  many 
whom  I  disliked  on  her  account,  believing  one 
week  that  she  surely  cared  about  them,  and 
finding  out  the  week  after  that  she  held  them 
in  the  most  absolute  and  supreme  indifference. 
Thus,  then,  the  season  mooned  away.  Thus 
it  came  about  that,  though  I  had  succeeded, 
was  the  tenor  of  the  season,  and  at  the  best 
house  ;  sang  with  Christina  Reichstein,  helped 
toward  her  success,  and  shared  it ;  saw  her  fre- 
quently off  the  stage— she  received  her  friends 
at  her  lodgings  in  Jermyn  Street  on  Sunday 


evenings,  and  one  or  two  off  afternoons  in  the 
week  —  was  a  constant  visitor,  and  perhaps 
ought  to  be  very  happy — I  was  distracted,  dis- 
appointed, and  miserable. 

What  on  earth  was  the  reason  why  I  so 
hated  to  see  Christina  acting  and  singing  with 
any  body  but  myself?      What  was  it  to  me? 
Nevertheless  I  always  felt  keenly  annoyed  when 
the  chances  of  the  situation  flung  her  literally 
into  the  arms  of  some  stout  basso,  who  proba- 
bly felt  no  emotion  whatever  except  anxiety 
about  his  own  part,  and  its  effect  on  the  au- 
dience.    She  acted  with  such  genuine  and  art- 
istic effect  that  I  sometimes  became  ridiculous- 
ly annoyed.     She  clasped  her  operatic  fathers 
and  lovers  with  a  clasp  apparently  as  fervent 
and  impassioned  as  if  they  were  genuine  fathers 
or  lovers,  or  only  lay  and  feeling] ess  figures. 
She  never  thought  of  them  at  the  moment,  as  I 
knew  well  who  had  to  embrace  her  publicly  a 
dozen  times  a  week  perhaps,  and  knew  how  ut- 
terly absorbed  in  her  lyrical  art,  and  how  ab- 
solutely indifferent  to  me,  she  was  all  the  time. 
It  would  be  idle  to  deny  that  stories  of  her 
past  life  were  whispered  about  which  it  was  tor- 
ture to  hear,  even  though  I  knew  that  there  was 
no  word  of  truth  in  them.     I  was  got  into  a 
silly  row  with  a  fellow  who  named  the  very  year 
in  which  he  knew,  he  said,  that  she  was  living, 
au  cinquieme  in  a  house  in  the  Quartier  Latin, 
with  a  young  artist  whom  she  afterward  threw 
over,  and  who  accordingly  took  to  absinthe,  and 
finally  to    the    Montmartre    Cemetery.      The 
story-teller  fixed  upon  the  very  year  before 
Christina's  father  died,  and  when  she  was  living 
peaceably  and  working  hard,  for  a  girl,  in  our 
quiet  old  town  by  the  sea — before  ever  she  had 
set  foot  on  Paris  pavement.     I  hardly  ever,  in- 
deed, heard  any  story,  good  or  bad,  told  about 
her  which  my  own  personal  and  certain  knowl- 
edge did  not  enable  me  to  contradict.     One 
reason  for  this  was,  that  so  far  as  her  recent 
years — her  years  of  growing   celebrity — were 
concerned,  nobody  had  a  word  to  say  against 
tier.     Her  life  had  left  no  opening  for  suspi- 
cion, or  even  for  calumny.    But  a  beautiful  and 
attractive  woman  in  that  line  of  life,  who  has 
cruelly  sinned  by  her  sudden  and  signal  suc- 
cess, must  have  done  wrong  some  time  or  other, 
you  know ;  and  as  there  is  nothing  to  be  said 
against  her  during  the  years  which  were  passed 
ander  our  own  observation  and  those  of  our  as- 
sociates, the  inference   is  obvious — the  error 
must  have  been  committed   in  the   obscurer 
ears  before  we  came  to  know  any  thing  about 
ner.     Therefore  three  out  of  every  four  of  the 
stories  whispered  about  her  referred  to  those 
'Id  dear  early  days  when  her  life  surely  was  one 
>f  the  calmest  and  purest  that  even  a  German 
girl  could  live. 

There  was  apparently  some  mystery  about 
her  marriage.  That  she  was  married  appeared 
o  be  certain ;  most  people  said  she  was  a  wid- 
>w.  Ned  Lambert  did  not  know ;  he  said  he 
always  took  it  for  granted  that  she  had  married 
he  Italian  who  had  her  educated  and  brought 


88 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


out,  and  that  he  had  died,  or  they  had  separa- 
ted somehow.  This  was  the  only  scrap  of  mys- 
tery—if it  was  mystery— about  her ;  and  she 
lived  an  open,  frank,  and  fearless  life,  absolute- 
ly like  one  who  had  nothing  to  conceal.  A 
steady,  elderly  German  woman  always  lived 
with  her ;  a  woman  of  some  intelligence  and 
education,  with  a  great  eye  for  artistic  make- 
up, and  a  good  business  memory — a  sort  of 
compound  of  poor  relation,  paid  companion, 
and  lady's-maid. 

Christina  never  talked  to  any  body  of  her 
past  life,  or  indeed  much  of  herself 'at  all.  She 
had  a  great  many  friends,  and  was  free,  friend- 
ly, and  joyous  with  most  of  them. 

I  made  slight  allusions  several  times'  to  the 
old  town  of  her  early  life  and  mine ;  but  she 
did  not  seem  inclined  to  go  back  to  any  such 
memories,  although  she  showed  not  the  slight- 
est embarrassment  on  the  subject.  Once,  at 
last,  when  I  had  again  made  allusion  to  it,  she 
seated  herself  at  the  piano  and  sang,  as  her 
only  answer — I  believe  to  an  air  of  her  own 
composition — a  little  ill-humored  ballad  by  a 
German  poetess,  whose  name  I  now  forget,  ex- 
pressing entire  disregard  and  contempt  for  all 
the  associations  of  the  poetess's  native  town  and 
early  days,  except  for  the  memory  of  an  old 
tree  which  pleasantly  shaded  her  childhood. 
I  ceased  after  that  to  say  any  word  which  might 
remind  her  of  that  past  from,  which  she  had 
evidently  made  up  her  mind  to  be  wholly  sev- 
ered. 

What  I  detested  most  was  to  see  her  haunt- 
ed by  the  presence  of  Mr.  Lyndon,  M.P.  He 
was  always  in  attendance  on  her ;  and  I  hated 
him.  He  ignored  my  existence  when  he  could  ; 
I  avoided  meeting  him  when  I  could.  There 
was  something  about  his  manner  to  me  which 
was  always  strangely  ii'ritating ;  all  the  more 
so  because  there  was  nothing  in  it  on  which  a 
man  could  reasonably  found  any  cause  of  of- 
fense. His  manner  ever  seemed  to  say,  "You 
are  not  a  person  to  be  received  by  me  as  an 
equal.  I  know  what  you  were,  and  that  is  what 
I  always  choose  to  think  you.  Others  may  re- 
gard you  as  a  successful  artist,  and  so,  being 
like  myself  professed  patrons  of  art,  may  admit 
you  to  their  intimacy.  I  don't  choose  to  see 
your  success,  or  to  care  about  it.  You  may  be 
tolerated  by  Madame  Eeichstein ;  that  is  no 
reason  why  you  should  be  tolerated  by  me.  I 
may  make  myself  a  slave  to  her  openly  and 
ostentatiously ;  that  is  no  reason  why  I  should 
be  so  condescending  to  you"  I  am  afraid  there 
was  something  mean  in  my  dislike  of  him ;  my 
detestation  of  his  cold  arrogance,  his  insolent 
money-pride,  his  bearing  even  among  those  of 
our  artist's  circle  whom  he  specially  favored. 
His  very  homage  to  Christina  I  thought  had 
something  offensive  in  its  ostentation.  It  al- 
ways seemed  to  say,  "Behold  what  so  great 
and  grand  a  personage  as  I  can  do  for  beauty 
and  art !  I  can  come  down  from  my  serene  re- 
spectability and  be  the  cavalier  in  service  of  a 
singing- woman." 


Christina,  however,  did  not  seem  to  regard 
his  attentions  in  that  light.  She  encouraged 
him,  flattered  him,  trifled  with  him,  coquetted 
with  him;  sometimes  had  long  and  serious  talks 
with  him  in  the  corners  of  crowded  rooms.  He 
took  her  to  the  Ladies'  Gallery  to  hear  the  de- 
bates on  nights  when  there  was  no  opera.  He 
hardly  ever  spoke  himself,  or  intended  to  do  so ; 
but  he  was  a  steadfast  Whig  party-man ;  and 
people  said  ministers  thought  a  great  deal  of 
him,  and  that  he  might  have  been  in  office  if 
he  liked.  He  was  often  on  the  platform^- 
sometimes  in  the  chair — at  Bible-society  meet- 
ings and  missionary  meetings ;  and  he  was  dead 
against  opening  places  of  amusement — or  even 
the  British  Museum— on  Sundays.  He  had  his 
vices,  but  they  were  very  quiet  and  decorous. 
His  looks  and  his  ways  with  women — the  women 
I  usually  saw  him  with — had  a  cold,  consuming 
sensuousness  about  them  which  I  thought -de- 
testable. He  had  been  married  twice,  and  now 
had  long  been  a  widower;  and  he  had  the  re- 
pute of  being  the  very  best  of  fathers,  especial- 
ly devoted  to  his  younger  daughter,  who  never 
thwarted  him,  as  her  rigidly  religious  sisters 
did,  on  the  score  of  his  operas  and  his  singers 
and  his  liking  for  the  ballet.  I  never  could 
quite  understand  how  a  man  could  be  greatly 
devoted  to  his  daughter,  and  wholly  unscrupu- 
lous as  regarded  her  sex  in  general.  But  it 
seemed  Mr.  Lyndon  was  so.  People  admired 
him  for  the  former  peculiarity,  and  thought 
none  the  worse  of  him  for  the  latter.  He  was 
commonly  set  down  as  an  excellent  man,  of 
great  ability  and  influence ;  and  most  persons 
paid  court  to  him  accordingly. 

He  was,  I  discovered,  a  great  patron  of  rev- 
olution. Refugees  from  disturbed  continental 
countries  were  constantly  seeking  him  out  and 
being  taken  up  and  patronized  by  him.  Chris- 
tina, too,  seemed  always  interested  in  that  sort 
of  thing ;  and  they  evidently  used  to  have  semi- 
official conferences  about  it.  Observing  this,  I 
of  course  began  to  detest  and  despise  all  conti- 
nental refugees ;  to  regard  them  as  humbugs, 
like  Mr.  Lyndon,  and  to  think  oppressed  na- 
tionalities nuisances  and  shams.  I  could  not 
believe  that  Christina  really  cared  much  about 
such  business ;  and  for  Mr.  Lyndon  I  set  it 
down  at  once  that  he  had  no  other  interest  in 
it  but  that  it  ministered  to  his  own  consequence 
and  importance.  In  fact,  he  was  a  patron,  and 
only  kind  or  even  civil  to  those  who  approached 
him  as  such — except,  of  course,  women,  who, 
when  they  were  good-looking,  carried  claims 
of  their  own  about  with  them  which  commend- 
ed them  to  Mr.  Lyndon's  attention.  More- 
over, he  seemed  to  take  a  sort  of  pleasure  in 
watching  the  smallness  of  human  nature  even 
in  those  he  paid  court  to ;  and  he  laughed  a 
short  and  sharp  little  laugh  over  any  small  hu- 
miliation to  which  his  closest  favorite  might 
happen  to  be  put. 

Thus  .the  man  presented  himself  to  my  ob- 
servation. I  never  knew  any  thing  worse  of 
him  than  just  what  I  have  told  or  indicated ; 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


89 


but  I  strongly  disliked  him ;  and  as,  thank 
Heaven,  I  never  approached  him  as  one  ap- 
proaches a  patron,  or  recognized  his  right  of 
patronage,  he  never  was  any  thing  better  than 
coldly  civil  to  me — and  not  even  that  when  he 
could  with  decency  avoid  it.  If  afterward  I 
may  have  pained  or  injured  the  man,  not  quite 
without  malice,  I  may  at  least  explain  why  it 
was  that  from  the  first  and  to  the  last  I  detest- 
ed and  despised  him. 

Christina  sometimes  gave  suppers  at  her 
rooms  (please  to  remember  that  I  am  describ- 
ing the  ways  of  ten  or  a  dozen  years  ago),  and 
I  used  to  meet  some  of  her  sister-singers  there, 
and  one  or  two  military  men,  and  a  few  of  the 
leading  critics,  whom  no  actor  or  singer  is  ever 
indifferent  about  conciliating.  I  was  generally 
found  at  these  gatherings,  chiefly  because,  al- 
though I  hated  to  be  there,  I  could  not  help 
myself,  and  had  not  the  spirit  to  stay  away. 
They  seemed  to  me  entirely  frivolous,  hollow, 
heartless.  Christina  herself  appeared  to  have 
sunk  quite  down  to  the  level  of  her  surround- 
ings. The  conversation  was  for  the  most  part 
mere  gabble  and  gossip  and  satire.  Every  one 
paid  court  to  the  ruling  artists  who  happened 
to  be  present  by  sneering  at  their  absent  rivals. 
Hostile  critics  were  denounced  and  no  doubt 
calumniated.  Stories  were  told  of  the  presents 
made  by  such  a  tenor  to  such  a  critic  to  ex- 
plain the  tremendous  puffs  with  which  this  or 
that  journal,  defying  all  audiences  and  musical 
science  and  common-sense,  flamed  in  the  fore- 
head of  the  morning  sky.  Counter-insinuations 
were  made  about  the  diamond  rings,  and  other 
temptations  yet  more  bewitching,  with  which 
this  or  that  soprano  or  contralto  had  vainly 
sought  to  corrupt  the  impregnable  honor  of 
another  critic  who  happened  to  be  one  of  the 
company. 

The  literary  gentlemen  did  not  appear  to 
have  much  more  esprit  de  corps  than  the  sing- 
ers. If  the  latter  babbled  all  manner  of  hissing 
stories  against  their  rivals,  the  former  listened 
complacently  and  even  assentingly  to  the  keen- 
est insinuations  against  the  honor  and  the 
trust- worthiness  of  brother  critics.  The  critics 
seemed  to  have  an  enormous  estimate  of  their 
own  power  ;  and  not  an  unreasonable  estimate, 
judging  from  the  court  paid  to  them  by  those 
who  ought  to  be  best  able  to  appreciate  their 
influence.  No  one  seemed  to  think  much  about 
the  public  at  all.  It  was  quite  a  matter  be- 
tween the  artists  and  the  critics.  If  these  ap- 
proved of  and  wrote  np  those,  the  thing  seemed 
to  be  done. 

From  my  own  point  of  view  it  did  not  thus 
appear  to  me.  I  had  always  relied  on  the  au- 
dience rather  than  on  the  critics,  and  indeed 
had  been  somewhat  ignored  by  the  latter.  I 
owe  them  no  ill-will  on  that  account.  Frank- 
ly, they  were  right.  Even  then  I  had  arrived 
at  a  very  fair  estimate  of  my  own  merits.  I 
knew  even  then  that  I  had  a  voice  and  nothing 
else.  My  soul  was  not  in  the  art ;  and  I  felt 
satisfied  that  some  time  or  other  this  must  be 


found  out  by  the  public.  I  was  quite  aware 
that  I  had  not  one  reiy  of  the  inspiration  which 
lighted  the  soul  and  the  eyes  of  Christina 
Reichstein  in  some  of  her  great  parts.  I  knew 
that  I  was  little  better  than  a  musical  automa- 
ton ;  but  I  was  a  success  with  the  audiences  for 
all  that.  The  opera-house  and  the  concert- 
room  filled  for  me ;  and  had  my  voice  only  en- 
dured I  must  have  made  a  fortune.  The  critics 
could  not  do  much  to  serve  me ;  and  they  seemed 
rather  too  puzzled  by  my  success  to  go  boldly  in 
for  attacking  me. 

One  evening  I  remember  in  particular.  Some 
dozen  or  so  supped  at  Christina's  rooms.  It  so 
happened  that  this  night  she  took  hardly  any 
notice  of  me — certainly  distinguished  me  in  no 
way  from  the  most  commonplace  of  her  ordina- 
ry visitors.  Mr.  Lyndon  sat  at  her  right  hand, 
and  paid  her  devoted  and  undisguised  attention, 
which  she  took  with  a  quiet  assent  that  half- 
maddened  me.  On  her  left  sat  a  distinguished 
critic  and  litterateur,  who  had  written  successful 
plays  and  successful  novels,  published  capital 
translations  of  various  foreign  works,  edited 
scientific  volumes,  compiled  biographies,  and 
even  varied  the  more  laborious  occupations  of 
his  life  by  appearing  occasionally  as  an  amateur 
actor.  He  had  an  astonishing  power  of  con- 
versation ;  he  could  talk  with  marvelous  fluency 
and  vivacity  on  all  subjects,  and  almost  in  all 
European  languages.  To  this  gentleman  Chris- 
tina always  intimated  that  she  owed  a  great  deal. 
He  had  been,  it  would  appear,  one  of  the  first 
to  note  and  to  welcome  her  success.  He  was, 
too,  as  I  afterward  heard  from  her  many  a  time, 
one  of  the  few  who  understood  that  she  was 
something  more  than  a  mere  singer.  Indeed, 
the  criticisms  he  had  published  about  her  did 
show  a  deep  and  genuine  appreciation  of  all 
those  qualities  of  her  voice,  her  lyric  style,  her 
dramatic  power,  which  were  most  truly  great 
and  peculiar.  There  was  nothing  in  him  which 
was  not  apparently  sincere  and  manly.  It  did 
not  «ven  then  surprise  me  that  he  had  mani- 
fested no  particular  admiration  for  my  genius 
and  merits.  He  had  taken  my  success,  such 
as  it  was,  quietly,  and  as  one  whom  nothing  on 
the  part  of  the  public  could  astonish ;  and  he 
had  said  nothing  ill-natured,  or  satirical,  or  even 
distinctly  depreciatory  of  me,  only  said  just  as 
little  of  me  as  might  be — habitually  recorded 
the  fact  that  I  won  applause,  and  so  let  me  go 
on  my  way. 

Ordinarily  I  should  have  felt  little  of  anger  to- 
ward any  body  who,  like  myself,  did  not  think  me 
a  great  sinjfbr.  But  this  particular  night  I  felt 
altogether  out  of  humor  with  myself,  and  natu- 
rally therefore  inclined  to  be  put  easily  out  of 
humor  with  every  body  else.  I  was  beginning 
of  late  (for  reasons  to  be  more  fully  explained 
presently)  to  doubt  myself,  to  suspect  that  I 
was  capable  of  playing  a  mean  and  ignoble  part, 
to  look  on  myself  as  capable  of  servile  love  and 
low-minded  rancor.  I  was  beginning  to  be 
ashamed  of  my  slavish  hanging  after  Christina's 
skirts,  and  to  feel  abashed  and  perplexed  by 


90 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


other  weaknesses  too.  I  thought  I  saw  myse 
sinking,  and  that  others  to/>  must  see  it.  So 
came  prepared,  despising  myself,  to  resent  an 
slight  from  another. 

I  soon  became  exasperated  when  I  saw  tha 
to  the  critic  I  have  spoken  of  Madame  Keich 
stein  ostentatiously  paid  special  attention  th 
night.     She  flirted  with  him  in  the  most  feai 
less  and  determined  manner;  it  appeared  t 
me,  with  some  definite  purpose  :   whether  fo 
the  discomfiture  of  myself  or  Mr.  Lyndon 
could  not  determine.     The  critic,  who  had  flirt 
ed  doubtless  with  all  the  prima  donnas  of  th 
previous  tsn  years,  entered  very  vivaciousl 
into  the  game,  and  of  course  took  it  in  precise 
ly  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  started.     But 
chose  to  be  deeply  offended ;    and  the  mor 
deeply  I  drank  for  comfort  and  desperation, 
paid  extravagant  attention  to  a  little  French 
woman  (a  new  singer)  beside  me,  who  was  her 
self  drinking  Champagne  with  amazing  zest.    '. 
either  saw,  or  thought  I  saw,  some  smiles  pass 
ing  around   at   both   of  us,  and  especially  i 
seemed  to  me  that  a  look  of  surprise  and  con 
tempt  came  up  on  the  face  of  Christina's  pel 
critic.     Impelled  by  Heaven  knows  what  idiotic 
impulse,  I  jumped  on  my  feet  and  proceeded  to 
address  the  astonished  little  company.     I  com- 
plained that  I  had  been  insulted ;  I  poured  ou 
some  frantic  nonsense,  especially  composed  of 
denunciations  of  critics  and  literary  men.     ] 
saw  Mr.  Lyndon  raise  his  double  eye-glass,  sur- 
vey me  coolly  for  a  moment,  and  then  drop  his 
glass  and  resume   his   conversation  with  his 
neighbor,  as  if  nothing  I  could  do  ought  to  be 
surprising    or    worth    any    particular    notice. 
Looks  of  anger,  contempt,  pity,  or  disgust  were 
on  every  face,  and  one  I  could  see  even  then 
wore  an  expression  of  such  surprise  and  shame 
and  sorrow,  that  it  might  almost  have  brought 
me  back  to  my  senses. 

I  believe  I  displaced  the  mirth,  broke  the 
good  meeting.  But  I  really  am  not  quite  cer= 
tain  how  the  matter  ended,  except  that  I  was 
assisted  to  a  cab  by  a  brother  artist  and  the 
very  critic  I  had  been  so  absurdly  denouncing. 
And  I  have  a  pretty  clear  idea,  as  shame  flashed 
a  gleam  of  consciousness  over  me,  that  I  heard 
the  former  say  to  the  latter:  "Never  saw  him 
like  this  before,  I'm  sure;  can't  think  what 
came  over  him.  He  is  a  very  good  fellow  gen- 
erally, I  can  assure  you." 

And  the  critic  replied:  "Yes;  I  have  no 
doubt  he  is  a  good  fellow,  and  he  has  an  un- 
commonly fine  voice ;  but  what  a  confounded 
fool  he  must  be!"  • 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

%    SWEARING   ETERNAL    FRIENDSHIP. 

BITTERLY  and  severely  did  I  echo  next  morn- 
ing  the  opinion  of  my  friend  the  critic.  What 
a  confounded  fool  I  had  made  of  myself!  was 
the  first  thought  present  to  my  mind.  How  she 


must  have  despised  me !  How  steadily  I  had 
been  sinking  of  late !  This  proof,  the  most 
grotesque  and  ridiculous  humiliation  I  had 
ever  been  put  to,  was  perhaps  not  the  sharpest 
proof  of  a  lowered  nature  which  pricked  my 
conscience. 

For  I  had  yet  a  conscience  and  a  sense  of 
honor.  I  have  read  somewhere  a  story  of  a 
prince  to  whom  a  loving  fairy  gave  a  magical 
ring,  which  was  to  be  his  guide  and  guard 
through  life.  Whenever  he  did  wrong,  the  ring 
was  to  prick  his  finger — sharply,  in  propor- 
tion to  the  magnitude  of  his  fault.  He  erred 
and  erred  ;  was  pricked  and  pricked.  At  last 
he  could  not  stand  the  thing  any  longer ;  and 
so  he  angrily  plucked  the  ring  off  his  finger 
and  flung  it  away.  For  a  while  he  was  per- 
fectly happy,  and  could  do  as  he  liked  un- 
pricked  of  conscience.  But  of  course  I  need 
not  say  that  he  went  to  the  bad  utterly— un- 
less, perhaps,  the  fairy  came  in  and  somehow 
redeemed  him  in  the  end.  Now  I  had  not 
thrown  away  my  ring,  and  I  felt  its  sharp  press- 
ure very  keenly  even  if  I  had  not  conscience 
and  spirit  enough  to  do  right,  and  thus  avoid 
ts  censure. 

Two  things,  at  all  events,  I  must  do.  I  must 
make  an  humble  apology  to  Christina,  and  an- 
other to  Mr.  Levison,  the  critic.  The  latter 
gave  me  no  troubling  thought ;  I  knew  he  would 
receive  it  like  a  gentleman,  and,  indeed,  that  he 
was  not  likely  in  any  case  to  feel  much  about 
he  matter.  But  to  meet  Madame  Reichstein 
ind  talk  of  my  shame  to  her  was  something 
[uite  different — something  I  dreaded.  Per- 
aps  I  dreaded  it  none  the  less  because  I  saw 
low  altered  were  our  relations  now ;  and  I  ex- 
acted from  her  none  of  that  tender,  forgiving 
nterest  with  which  women  who  care  for  us  as 
overs,  or  brothers,  or  friends,  are  only  too  hap- 
>y  to  anticipate  our  penitence  and  cover  our 
umiliation. 

It  had  to  be  done,  however ;  and  with  an 
ching  head  and  dogged  heart  I  set  about  do- 
ng  it.  I  lived  now,  since  the  Lyndons  had 
eft  London,  in  the  same  house  with  Edward 
-ambert.  We  had  taken  lodgings  together ^n 
•rompton ;  and  though  our  hours  and  ways 
iffered  so  much  that  I  sometimes  did  not  meet 
im  for  whole  days  together,  we  were  still 
riendly  as  ever,  with  only  one  or  two  subjects 
n  which  we  suspended,  rather  than  withheld, 
eciprocal  confidence.  All  this  I  shall  present- 
T  come  to  ;  for  the  moment  I  pass  it  by. 

This  particular  morning  I  was  glad  not  to 
ee  him ;  I  did  not  want  to  talk  to  any  body, 
dressed  myself  as  carefully  and  well  as  I  could ; 
ut  it  seemed,  as  I  nervously  and  often  scruti- 
zed  my  appearance,  that  I  could  not  get  a  cer- 
,in  dissipated  and  rowdy  look  out  of  my  eyes 
nd  hair.  All  that  tubbing,  and  sponging,  and 
rushes,  and  pomade,  and  perfumery  could  do 
as  done  energetically ;  but  I  still  thought  the 
>wdy  look  remained,  like  the  blood-spots  on 
ady  Macbeth 's  hands  or  Bluebeard's  key.  My 
ul  sickened  at  the  thought  of  breakfast.  I 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


91 


rejected  eggs  and  toast  and  kidneys,  and  would 
not  look  at  the  Times.  When  something  like  a 
reasonable  hour  had  approached,  I  started  on 
my  errand,  and  walked  to  Jermyn  Street. 

When  I  stood  at  the  door,  this  soft  and  sun- 
ny noon,  I  could  not  but  think  of  the  drear  and 
dripping  night  when,  prouder  of  soul  and  purer 
of  heart  than  now,  I  stood  at  this  same  door  and 
sought  Christina  in  vain.  Since  then  I  had 
many  times  crossed  the  threshold,  but  never 
sought  to  speak  with  her  alone  and  face  to  face. 
If  we  were  to  speak  together  now,  in  a  room 
alone,  it  would  be  for  the  first  time  since  the 
night  when  she  called  a  farewell  to  me,  and  the 
rose  dropped  from  her  bosom. 

I  sent  up  my  card,  was  invited  to  come  up, 
and  I  found  her  alone. 

The  room  was  small,  elegant,  with  nothing 
even  in  the  graceful  carelessness  of  its  appear- 
ance to  remind  one  of  the  profession.  Every 
thing  was^quiet,  unpretentious,  and  even  home- 
ly-looking. Christina  had  been  playing  on  the 
piano  and  singing  in  a  low  tone  as  I  came ; 
and  when  I  entered  the  room  she  had  just 
turned  round  and  was  rising  to  meet  me.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  morning-robe  of  purple  cash- 
mere, or  some  such  material,  with  a  white  rose 
in  her  bosom.  The  color  of  the  dress  made 
her  bright  complexion,  luxuriant  fair  hair,  and 
deep  dark  eyes  look  even  more  striking  and 
dazzling  than  they  were  wont  to  do,  and  her 
hair  now  fell  around  her  as  unconfined  and 
careless  as  when  it  used  to  rouse  the  spinster- 
like  anger  of  good  Miss  Griffin  in  the  choir 
long  ago.  Rising  from  the  piano,  she  threw 
back  her  hair  with  one  hand  and  with  an  im- 
patient toss  of  the  head,  and  then  held  out  her 
other  hand  to  me.  She  scarcely  looked  up, 
and  our  eyes  did  not  meet. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  "how  en- 
tirely without  ceremony  I  receive  you.  My  hair 
is  in  terrible  disarray ;  but  if  you  will  make  such 
early  morning  calls  what  can  one  do  ?" 

"  I  ought  to  apologize  to  you  for  coming,  and 
I  would  do  so  if  I  had  not  so  much  more  serious 
an  apology  to  make.  I  am  ashamed  of  myself, 
Madame  Reichstein,  and  of  the  world ;  and, 
most  of  all,  of  you." 

"What  an  alarming  preface!  What  have 
you  done  ?" 

"  It  is  useless  kindness,  Madame  Reichstein, 
to  profess  ignorance.  You  know  only  too  well 
what  I  have  done  to  shame  myself,  and  what  I 
have  come  to  apologize  for.  Don't,  Christina, 
don't  force  me  to  think  you  have  really  lost  all 
interest  in  me  by  telling  me  that  you  were  not 
angry  with  me,  or  ashamed  of  me,  for  what 
happened  last  night." 

I  had  till  now  been  standing,  and  Christina 
had  not  left  her  music-stool.  While  I  was 
speaking  she  rose  and  came  toward  me. 

"Emanuel,"  she  said,  gravely,  "I  am  glad 
to  hear  you  speak  in  this  way.  I  am  glad  in- 
deed ;  and  I  will  not  go  on  in  the  tone  I  tried 
to  take.  I  was  angry  with  you  for — for  what 
happened  last  nighj;.  I  was  angry,  and  deeply 


pained,  and  ashamed  —  on  your  account.  I 
could  not  recognize  you  last  night ;  but  I  am 
glad  to  believe  you  could  not  recognize  your- 
self, and  mv  mind  is  much  relieved.  I  have 
thought  of  it  ever  since ;  but  now,  if  you  bid 
me,  I  will  think  of  it  no  more.  You  are  not 
changed,  Emanuel?  Not  really  changed,  I 
mean?  You  have  not  allowed  the  world  to 
corrupt  you  ?  There  was  a  word  or  two  which 
used  to  be  favorite  with  you  once — about  keep- 
ing the  whiteness  of  the  soul.  You  have  kept 
the  whiteness  of  your  soul,  nicht  wahrf" 

She  spoke  with  a  friendly,  confiding  tender- 
ness and  frankness,  as  unlike  her  ordinary  man- 
ner now  as  my  drunken  display  of  the  previous 
night  could  be  to  my  penitent  sadness  of  this 
morning. 

"I  hope  I  have  not  changed  wholly,  Christi- 
na. I  hope  so.  But  times  have  changed,  and 
most  people  round  me ;  and  I  sometimes  think 
and  fear  that  I  have  been  allowing  myself  to 
sink  into  something  of  which  once  I  should  have 
been  ashamed." 

She  laid  her  hand  gently  on  mine. 

"Emanuel,  I  too  fear  it.  I  have  watched 
you  closely — from  friendship,  believe  me ;  and 
I  do  fear  that  you  are  allowing  yourself  to — 
well,  not  to  improve." 

"  Can  you  wonder  at  it  ?"  I  interrupted  her, 
in  bitter  tone.  "What  have  I  to  care  for? 
Why  should  I  care  for  myself?  If  I  have 
changed,  have  not  you  changed  ?  Are  you  the 
same  that  you  were  ?  Do  I  not  see  that  you  can 
fling  yourself  into  a  frivolous  and  foolish  life?" 

"Do  you  want  answers  to  all  these  ques- 
tions, Emanuel  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't ;  I  have  no  right  to  ask  them. 
I  have  nothing  to  do  with  your  way  of  living,  or 
your  friends,  or  the  people  you  allow  to  hang 
after  you,  or  the  reports  that  other  people  spread 
about — I  want  no  answer,  Christina ;  but  when 
you  reproach  me  with  having  changed,  and 
sunk,  and  all  that,  I  can  only — " 

"Tell  me  to  look  at  myself,  Emanuel,  and 
bring  my  moral  lessons  to  bear  there,  you  were 
going  to  say." 

"  No.  I  was  not  going  to  say  that,  although — 
But  I  was  not  going  to  say  it,  indeed.  I  was 
only  going  to  say  that  I  never  set  up  for  any 
thing — for  great  moral  purpose,  or  nobleness,  or 
virtue,  or  any  of  that  sort  of  thing.  I  take  my 
color — most  men  do — -from  the  hues  of  those 
around  them.  You,  Christina,  were  my  dream 
for  long,  long  years  ;  and  you  know  it.  Well, 
I  am  awake ;  and  I  can't  pretend  to  be  dream- 
ing any  more.  We  are  all  poor  creatures,  I 
suppose ;  and  I  accept  the  situation,  and  don't 
set  up  to  be  any  better  than  my  neighbors.  I 
am  heartily  ashamed  of  what  I  said  and  did  last 
night,  and  I  apologize  profoundly  for  it.  I  of- 
fended you,  and  insulted  your  guests,  and  made 
a  beast  and  a  brute  of  myself;  and  it  is  very 
kind  of  you  to  receive  me  at  all  after  such  a 
scandal.  But  for  the  rest  I  have  not  much  to 
say.  I  have  not  improved  of  late ;  and  that's 
all." 


92 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


I  could  not  keep  back  the  bitterness  of  my 
soul;  it  found  relief,  and  I  was  not  sorry 
Christina  did  not  wince,  however;  no,  not  in 
the  least. 

"  Emanuel,  zwischen  uns  sei  Wahrlie.it.     Yot 
remember  the  old  scene  v& Iphigenlaf-  Between 
us  be  the  truth'!     You  think  I  have  greatlj 
changed,  and  for  the  worse?" 
I  made  no  answer. 

"Come,  speak  out!"  she  said,  impatiently 
"  You  think  I  have  become  worldly,  and  friv- 
olous, and  cunning,  don't  you  ?" 
"Sometimes  I  do,  Christina." 
"  I  asked  you  when  we  met  for  the  first  time 
— I  mean  the  first  time  since  long  ago — not  to 
judge  me  merely  from  the  outside.  I  don't 
show  to  advantage,  and  I  don't  always  want 
to  ;  but  I  don't  wish  to  lose  your  good  opinion 
wholly,  Emanuel;  the  more  as  you  seem  to 
make  my  falling  off  a  sort  of  excuse  for  your 
own.  Come,"  she  said,  and  she  sat  in  a  chair 
and  pointed  me  to  another — "come  and  tell 
me  my  faults.  Be  a  friend,  and  speak  out.  I 
have  spoken  frankly  to  you." 

"To-day,  just  for  this  moment,  you  have." 
"To-morrow,  perhaps,  I  shall  be  cold  and 
careless  and  frivolous ;  very  likely  I  shall  seem 
so.  You,  I  might  have  thought,  could  judge  a 
little  better  than  by  mere  seemings.  Well, 
will  you  tell  me  my  faults  ?" 

"No;  and  I  have  not  been  speaking  of 
faults ;  only  of  the  change  that  seems  to  have 


come  over  you. 

"Then  I  will  speak  for  you.  You  think  I 
have  no  heart  and  no  memory,  and  no  care  for 
any  thing  but  flattery  and  excitement  ?" 

"I  have  lately  thought  so." 

"Then  you  are  wrong,  Emanuel;  indeed, 
indeed  you  are.  I  have  a  sort  of  part  to  play, 
and  I  must  play  it.  I  do  not  deny  that  I  love 
praise  and  excitement ;  but  I  could  have  loved 
other  things  better ;  and  I  still  am  no  more  in 
heart  what  you  commonly  see  me  than  I  am 
Amina  or  Leonora." 

"Why  do  you  keep  that  old  man  hanging 
after  you  ?" 

"I  might  reply  by  another  question,  and  say, 
What  right  have  you  to  ask  ?  I  might  evade 
the  question  for  a  moment,  as  most  women 


"Then  you  know  nothing  of  my  life  for  the 
past  few  years  ?" 

"  Nothing.  Except,  of  course,  what  all  the 
world  knows.'' 

She  sighed  audibly. 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  she  said ;  "you  shall  know 
it  all  some  time— before  long,  perhaps,  but  not 
now.  For  a  while,  Emanuel,  take  me  on  trust ; 
I  am  better  than  I  seem.  Listen,  and  I  will 
speak  to  you  as  I  never  meant  to  speak  to  you 
again.  Your  good  opinion  is  dear  to  me.  Your 
friendship  I  would  have  if  I  could.  Once, 
Emanuel,  I  loved  you  better  than  all  things  on 


sxcept 


earth,  except—  see  how  frank  I 
success." 

I  could  not  repress  a  groan  ;  and  I  rose  from 
my  chair  and  turned  partly  away. 

"  But  I  always  dreamed  of  that  success  with 
you.  And  you  loved  me;  but  not  so  deeply 
and  wholly  —  no,  don't  speak  ;  if  I  am  stayed 
now  I  shall  never  be  able  to  continue  —  not  so 
deeply  as  I  would  have  had.  We  went  our 
ways,  hoping  to  meet  again  before  it  should  be 
too  late.  We  did  not  so  meet  ;  it  was  too  late. 
When  I  wrote  to  you  in  London,  Emanuel,  it 
was  too  late." 

"  No,  no,  Christina—  no,  by  Heaven  !  It  was 
the  idlest  chance,  the  purest  delusion,  the  error 
of  a  kindly,  well-meaning  friend  that  made  you 
*  " 


All  that  I  have  since  learned  or  guessed. 
But  I  did  not  and  could  not  know  it  then  ;  and 
rou  kept  yourself  hidden  away  until  I  hated 
ron.  and  myself  for  the  unwomanly  advance  I 
had  made,  and  the  silence  that  followed  it." 

I  never  knew,  I  never  dreamed,  that  Mile. 
Reichstein  was  Christina  Braun  ;  and  I  was  poor 
ind  obscure  and  hopeless,  a  beggar  without  a 
lame." 

"Well,  it  is  vain  talking  ;  let  all  that  be  laid 
side.     It  is  now  too  late,  and  Providence  has 
indly  ordered  it  for  the  best.     I  have  only 
rought  back  all  this  that  I  may  say  one  thing 
or  myself.     I  have  chosen  another  part  in  life, 
nd  I  mean  to  play  it  faithfully  and  loyally  to 
the  end.      Therefore,  Emanuel,  I  have  kept 
back  from  you,  and  received  you  not  even  as  a 
friend.     If  we  were  friends,  you  might  come  to 
know  in  time  why  I  do  things  which  appear  to 


would,  I  think,  and  innocently  ask,  What  old    you  now  strange.     I  can  not  have  you  think 
man  ?     But  I  suppose  of  course  you  mean  Mr.    ' 
Lyndon.     Well,  Mr.  Lyndon  has  long  been  an 
intimate  friend  of  mine,  and — " 

"And  is  likely  soon  to  be  more,  people  say." 


Do  they? 
do  thev  say  ?" 


How  kind  people  are !     What 


'Well,  five  out  of  every  six  say  you  will  mar- 


ry him.' 
She  smiled. 
"Indeed!     And  the  sixth— who  I 


suppose 


has  reason  to  know  better — what  does  he  say  on 
the  subject?" 

"  Even  he,  I  think,  knows  no  particular  rea- 
son to  the  contrary." 

"Do  you  know  no  reason  to  the  contrary?" 

"None  whatever." 


badly  of  me.  Your  word,  Emanuel ;  can  we  be 
friends  ?" 

She  held  her  hand  out  frankly,  and  her  eyes 
met  mine. 

"You  do  not  speak.  Will  you  be  my 
friend  ?  Your  word,  and  I  shall  expect  that, 
once  pledged,  it  shall -be  as  your  oath.  Will 
you  be  my  friend  ?" 

I  could  not  answer  for  a  moment;  I  could 
not  answer  unconditionally  at  all.  For  half  a 
life  I  had  loved  her ;  lately  I  had  almost  hated 
her.  How  could  I  in  a  moment  promise  to  sub- 
side into  pure  and  enduring  friendship  ?  I  saw 
that  in  her  eyes  there  came  a  look  of  anxiety 
and  pity  and  pathos.  She  leaned  now  on  the 
chimney-piece,  and  looked. steadfastly  at  me. 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


03 


I  was  about  to  speak,  but  she  raised  her  hand 
to  enjoin  silence.  I  remained  silent,  and  with- 
out moving.  The  street  outside  was  singular- 
ly quiet.  It  seemed  as  if  sleeping  in  the  hot 
glare  of  the  sun.  From  where  I  stood  I  could 
see  through  the  window  only  a  part  of  the  far 
side  of  the  street.  There  was  no  life  stirring 
there;  not  even  a  hurdy-gurdy  was  heard.  For 
the  few  seconds  we  remained  silent  not  a  cab 
rattled  down  the  street.  In  the  room  nothing 
was  heard  but  the  ticking  of  the  little  gilt  clock 
on  the  chimney-piece.  When,  as  we  stood  and 
looked  at  each  other,  a  piano-string  suddenly 
snapped,  the  clang  came  so  loud  and  sharp  on 
the  ear  that  Christina  positively  started. 

Then,  in  the  silence  which  followed,  I  heard 
— just  what  I  had  heard  before,  in  fact,  as 
Christina  broke  off  our  conversation — three  bars 
of  what  seemed  to  be  an  operatic  air,  but  which 
was  certainly  unfamiliar  to  me,  whistled  in  the 
street  below.  The  whistle  was  of  a  somewhat 
peculiar  kind,  shrill  and  sibilating;  and  the 
whistler  stopped  suddenly  short  at  one  particu- 
lar note  each  time ;  almost  as  a  bird  does  which 
is  trying  to  learn  some  air  from  its  master,  and 
can  not  get  over  some  difficult  turn,  and  so 
stops  and  begins  again.  I  marked  all  this  now 
because  my  ears  and  senses  were  on  the  stretch 
for  something ;  otherwise  I  should  never  have 
paid  any  attention  to  it,  or  perhaps  even  been 
aware  of  the  sound  at  all.  It  was,  however, 
the  only  sound  to  be  heard ;  and  it  was  clear 
that  Christina  was  listening  to  it  with  all  her 
ears. 

Her  face,  from  paleness,  had  grown  to  a  deep 
flush  of  excitement,  and  her  lips  quivered  visi- 
bly. When  the  whistling  had  the  second  time 
reached  the  same  note  she  sighed  audibly,  as 
with  profound  resignation  or  profound  relief, 
one  could  not  tell  which. 

"  Has  any  thing  happened  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh  yes ;  something  has  happened.  Some- 
thing very  unexpected.  I  must  ask  you  to  leave 
me,  Emanuel." 

" Two  words  only.     Nothing  bad?" 

"No;  something  good — very  good.  I  did 
not  expect  it  yet.  I  ought  to  be  deeply  thank- 
ful ;  I  am  thankful.  Good-morning,  Emanuel. 
Please  don't  ask  me  any  more ;  and  don't 
stay." 

She  was  all  trembling,  and  quite  eager  and 
excited.  I  obeyed  her  and  put  no  further  ques- 
tions, but  hurried  from  the  room.  Just  as  I 
was  leaving,  her  German  companion  or  follow- 
er came  in,  looking  excited  too,  but  seemingly 
in  a  wholly  joyous  sense.  She  came  like  one 
who  brings  good  news. 

When  I  reached  the  street  I  could  see  nobody 
on  either  side  of  it  who  seemed  likely  to  have 
been  the  mysterious  whistler.  A  man  was 
wheeling  a  barrowful  of  fruit,  wrapped  in  blue 
papers,  along  toward  the  St.  James's  Street  end. 
A  policeman  was  tramping  the  other  way.  A 
girl,  with  a  roll  of  music  in  her  hand,  and  petti- 
coats high  kilted,  passed  close  to  me.  Other 
human  beings  near  at  hand  I  could  not  see.  It 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


did  not  seem  likely  that  any  one  of  those  I  had 
seen  could  have  had  the  faculty  of  startling 
Christina  by  whistling  the  fag-end  of  a  tune, 


CHAPTER  XX. 

AN    EXPLANATION. 

THE  conversation  I  had  just  had  with  Chris- 
tina will  help  still  further  to  explain  a  little  of 
my  past  life.     It  was  certain  that  I  had  degen- 
erated since  the  renewal  of  our  acquaintance- 
ship.    Life  has  to  be  got  through  somehow  aft- 
er the  heaviest  disappointment ;  and  not  often 
in  real  existence  can  we  raise  a  Rolandseck 
over  the  wasted  scene  of  frustrated  love  and 
ruined  hope,  and  go  and  be  pious  and  patient 
there.     It  was  only  after  I  had  met  Christina 
again  that  the  full  bitterness  of  the  thought 
came  to  me  that  I  had  no  longer  any  thing  to 
live  for.     While  we  were  separated  there  was 
always  an  object,  if  not  a  hope.     Now  there 
seemed  neither.     I  confess  that  I  sank  a  little 
way  into  a  sort  of  unmeaning  joyless  dissipa- 
tion, for  which  I  had  naturally  no  taste,  and 
into  which  I  could  not  by  any  possibility  throw 
my  soul.    The  Champagne  of  the  night  and  the 
headache  of  the  morning  just  a  little  distractec 
me,  and  no  more.     Ned  Lambert  sometime 
shook  his  honest  head  and  tried  a  gentle  lacon 
ic  remonstrance ;  with  the  usual  effect.    I  have 
no  doubt  he  spoke  to  Christina  on  the  subject 
and  urged  her  to  bring  her  influence  to  bear 
Perhaps  to  this  I  owed  the  pledge  of  friendship 
we  had  just  made. 

Any  how,  the  pledge  of  friendship  did  no 
procure  me  much  more  of  Christina's  society 
or  apparently  of  her  confidence.  There  was 
perhaps  a  warmer  pressure  of  the  hand  when 
we  met ;  and  there  was  occasionally  a  deeper 
shade  of  interest  and  anxiety  in  her  eyes  as 
they  rested  on  me  for  a  moment.  Sometimes 
I  fear  I  only  set  this  down  to  her  dread  on  the 
score  of  my  degenerating  habits;  and  I  felt 
rather  inclined  to  resent  than  to  feel  grateful 
for  it. 

No  explanation  had  come  or  suggested  itself 
regarding  her  sudden  emotion  on  the  day  when 
our  ceremonial  of  friendship -vowing  was  so 
strangely  interrupted. 

Mr.  Lyndon  of  course  often  came  to  the 
Opera.  One  night,  just  about  this  time,  I  ob- 
served him  enter  the  stalls  rather  late.  He 
came  in  along  with  a  tall,  thin,  dark-bearded, 
remarkable-looking  man — a  man  with  a  high 
forehead,  sloping  rather  back  and  seamed  with 
premature  wrinkles ;  a  man  with  a  face  which 
would  have  been  stern  and  sharp  in  its  expres- 
sion but  for  a  certain  soft  and  melancholy  sweet- 
ness in  his  liquid,  luminous  eyes.  There  was 
something  about  this  man's  appearance  which 
attracted  me  in  an  instant;  and  I  could  not 
help  thinking  it  attracted  Christina  too,  for  I 
observed  that  from  time  to  time  she  glanced 
under  her  eyes  in  the  direction  where  he  and 


Lyndon  sat ;  and  she  was  too  much  of  a  true 
artist  ever  to  think  under  ordinary  conditions 
of  sending  her  eyes  roaming  about  the  house  in 
search  of  admiration.  If  you  could  have  got  a 
boxful  of  emperors,  Christina  Reichstein  would 
have  scorned  to  sing  at  them.  So  I  had  some 
reason  for  silent  surprise  when  I  observed  that 
she  did  now  and  then  glance  quietly  in  the  di- 
rection where  this  man  was  sitting  with  his 
friend.  He  was,  I  perceived,  usually  very 
marked  and  emphatic  in  his  applause. 

Mr.  Lyndon  and  this  man  escorted  Christina 
to  her  little  brougham  after  the  Opera.  Need- 
less to  say  that  I  did  not  feel  much  inclined  to 
obtrude  myself  on  such  company.  Christina 
saw  me,  and  called  a  friendly  good  -  night, 
with  two  or  three  words  added  in  German, 
which  bade  me  see  her  as  early  as  possible 
next  day.  Mr.  Lyndon  and  I  exchanged,  as 
usual,  a  very  cold  salute. 

As  I  turned  away  I  met  a  brother  artist, 
whom  I  saw  exchanging  a  salute  a  little  more 
friendly  with  the  dark  and  pale-faced  stranger. 
"  Who's  our  friend  ?"  I  asked,  nodding  in  the 
direction  of  the  stranger,  who  had  gone  with 
Mr.  Lyndon  to  the  carriage  of  the  latter.  I 
threw  an  immense  amount  of  scorn  into  my 
voice;  why,  I  don't  know.  He  to  whom  I 
spoke  was  a  Frenchman. 

J'  But  I  have  forgot  his  name.    He  is  an  Italian 
— indeed,  that  goes  without  saying— and  he  is 
going  to  be  a  lion  of  your  salons  here  for  a  season, 
I  am  told.     He  is  a  patriot ;  he  is  an  escaped — " 
"Convict?" 

"  Convict — yes  ;  that  is,  Austrian  convict,  or 
at  least  Austrian  prisoner." 

"I  thought  he  had  a  look  of  Toulon  about 
him." 

"Nothing  of  the  sort.  You  are  not  sympa- 
thique;  nor  I,  indeed,  no  more.  He  has  es- 
caped somehow  from  Spielberg,  or  death,  or 
something,  and  he  is  going  to  agitate  your 
country  to  take  up  arms  for  the  independence 
of  Italy.  And  she  will !  Oh  yes ;  England 
will  spend  all  her  moneys,  and  her  powders  and 
shots,  and  her  cottons,  just  for  a  dream." 
"But  this  person?" 

"Well,  that  is  all  I  know.     He  is  a  very  dis- 
tinguished man — quite  celebrated." 
"Whose  name  you  have  forgotten." 
Yes,  and  of  whom  I  never  heard  before." 
How  did  you  come  to  know  him  ?" 
Madame  Reichstein  did  me  the  honor  to 
present  me." 

How  does  she  know  him  ?" 
Oh,  for  that,  my  dear,  you  must  not  ask 
me.     Perhaps  your  Lyndon  has  taken  him  in 
charge." 

Ah,  very  likely;    he  patronizes  illustrious 
breigners  a  good  deal." 

"But  rather  when  they  are  injupons  than  in 
jantaloons,  is  it  not  ? — Where  are  you  going  ?" 
"Home,  I  think." 

Ridiculous — at  this  hour !     Come  and  have 
a  game  of  billiards." 

Thanks — not  to-night." 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


95 


"Come  at  least  and  smoke  a  pipe." 
"No;  I  can't  to-night." 
Indeed  my  pipe  was  quite  put  out  for  tha 
evening.     I  can  not  tell  how  it  was  that  I  cam< 
to  associate  the  man  I  had  seen  in  the  stalls 
with  the  scene  in  Christina's  room  the  other 
day ;  but  I  did  so  associate  him  in  my  mind  a 
once.     When,  as  she  was  leaving  the  theatre 
she  asked  me  to  come  and  see  her  next  day — 
asked  me  in  pressing  tones,  and  in  German  (we 
hardly  ever  spoke  German  to  each  other  now 
— I  felt  in  some  strange  way  that  my  conjecture 
was  confirmed.     I  went  home  moodily,  expect- 
ing something  painful,  I  hardly  knew  what. 

Christina  received  me  very  graciously  when 
I  visited  her  next  morning — very  graciously  and 
sweetly.  There  was  a  pathetic,  anxious  sort  of 
kindness  about  her  manner  which  was  not  usual 
with  her  of  late.  She  was  embarrassed,  too ; 
and  her  thoughts  seemed  dwelling  on  any  thing 
rather  than  the  subject  we  first  talked  of.  For 
a  few  minutes  there  was  indeed  an  awkward 
pause  every  now  and  then  in  the  conversation 
we  carried  on,  as  if  each  was  expecting  the 
other  to  put  some  question  or  begin  some  ex- 
planation. 

We  spoke  a  few  words  about  Ned  Lambert 
and  his  love,  and  his  separation  from  Lilla  Lyn- 
don, of  which  Christina  appeared  to  know  a 
good  deal.  I  made  some  allusion  to  the  one 
great  cause  of  Lilla's  resolution  to  leave  Lon- 
don, and  found  that  Christina  seemed  to  under- 
stand or  have  guessed  it. 

"  That,  too,  I  know,"  she  said.  "You  speak 
Df  the  wretched  man,  Stephen  Lyndon  ?" 

"I  do." 

"  I  did  not  know  his  real  name  or  his  real  na- 
:ure  until  lately."  (Here  she  paused.)  "But 
[  don't  want  to  speak  of  him  just  now.  I  have 
sent  for  you  for  another  purpose,  Emanuel." 
Another  pause — and  then  she  said :  "  I  am  go- 
ing to  introduce  you  to-day  to  a  man  whose 
'riend  I  want  you  to  be  ;  for  my  sake  first,  and 
;hen  for  his  own.  I  wish  you  and  him  to  be 
riends,  and  I  wish  that  you  should  know  our 
secrets.  You  saw  me  speak  to  a  tall  and  dark- 
laired  Italian  last  night  ?" 

"I  did." 

* '  He  will  come  here  to-day.  He  is  my  hus- 
jand." 


Carlo  Farini  Salaris.  He  had  a  title  and  or- 
ders and  honors ;  but  he  dropped  them  all  be- 
cause he  was  disappointed  in  Charles  Albert, 
and  in  others  too.  He  had  two  passions  in  his 
life— music  and  his  country.  Chance  brought 
him  to  know  me  when  I  was  a  poor  girl— an  ad- 
venturess, many  people  would  have  called  me 
— a  beggar  almost.  He  liked  my  voice ;  he 
had  faith  in  me;  he  had  me  educated;  he 
brought  me  out.  All  that  I  am  he  made  me. 
All  that  I  could  do  for  him  in  return  I  have 
done,  I  am  doing." 

"I  knew  that — that  you  had  been  married, 
Christina.  I  did  not  know  that  your  husband 
was  living." 

"Nor  must  you  know  it  now.  Understand 
me,  it  is  a  secret  only  known  to  you,  and  per- 
haps one  or  two  others.  He  has  only  lately  es- 
caped from  an  Austrian  prison,  where  he  was 
sent  for  the  part  he  took  in  Lombard  plots  and 
revolutions.  He  has  escaped  only,  I  fear,  to 
take  part  in  other  plots.  Think  how  happy  the 
life  of  his  wife  must  be !  I  can  help  him,  how- 
ever, in  many  ways  while  I  am  not  known  to  be 
his  wife.  I  have  carried  the  fiery  cross  for  him 
from  the  Alps  to  the  Straits  of  Messina,  when 
not  even  Austrian  or  Neapolitan  police  suspect- 
ed the  German  soprano  of  being  an  emissary  of 
the  revolution.  Ah,  it  would  be  a  long  and 
weary  tale  to  tell ;  it  is  a  sad  memory !  In  this 
way  I  hold  my  life  at  his  disposal,  and  my  hap- 
piness. I  will  plot  for  him,  scheme  for  him  ; 
smile  while  I  know  that  he  is  in  danger,  flirt 
when  every  moment  I  think  to  hear  news  of  his 
death.  This  is  the  only  way  in  which  I  can  re- 
pay him  :  I  owe  him  all. " 

"  Surely  you  have  given  him  something  that 
might  repay  any  thing  he  has  done  for  you?" 

"I  have  given  him  all  I  could,  Emanuel; 
and  he  was  generous  eri'ough  to  have  confidence 
in  me,  and  to  believe  that  I  would  have  given 
"lim  more  if  I  could.     Listen,  and  I  will  speak 
to  you  with  a  frankness  which  others  might 
misunderstand,  but  you  will  not.     I  will  speak 
to  you  as  if  I  were  a  ghost  come  back  from  the 
rave,  to  whom  the  world  could  no  longer  have 
reality,  and  who  had  nothing  more  to  do  with 
mman  hopes,  and  loves,  and  misunderstand- 
ngs,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.     Even  before  I  had 
made  a  success  of  any  kind,  he  would  have  mar- 
ried me,  and  I  would  not.      You  know  the  rea- 
on  why.     I  succeeded  through  him  altogether. 
3e  pressed  me  again  and  again — tenderly,  del- 
cately,  like  a  man  with  a  noble  nature.     I  was 
Doming  to  England.     For  the  first  time  since  I 
ad  left  it,  you  understand.      He  guessed  why 
I  was  coming,  and  I  told  him  all." 
"  All  ?     All  of  the  past,  or—" 
"  I  spoke  to  him  as  freely  as  some  of  his  own 
:ountrywomen  do  to   their  confessor.     I  told 
lim  that  I  loved  you — yes,  I  am  not  ashamed  to 
ay  it  now,  and  I  was  not  then — and  that  my 
learest  hope  was  to  find  you.     And  he  said", 
with  his  melancholy  smile,  '  Go  to  England ; 
>ut  if  you  do  not  find  him,  or  have  any  cause  to 
hange  your  purpose,  then  promise  me  that  you 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


will  come  back  to  me.'  I  went  to  England, 
and  you  know  the  rest — Fate  was  against  us." 

"Fate  was  cruelly  against  me!"  I  said,  start- 
ing up  ;  "  Fate  was  against  me!  And  you  too, 
Christina!  You  threw  me  away  at  a  word; 
you  had  done  so  before.  Don't  tell  me  of  love 
— you  never  loved  me ;  you  were  too  glad  to 
escape  from  me ;  you  had  your  ambition  and 
your  career,  and  you  followed  your  destiny.. 
Well,  I  don't  blame  you,  and  I  am  not  sur- 
prised. Peace  be  between  us  for  the  future, 
and  let  us  be  friends  if  you  will ;  only  do  not 
torture  me  to  no  purpose  by  trying  to  persuade 
me  that  that  might  have  been  which  never  could 
have  been.  Well,  forgive  me  for  interrupting 
you — " 

"You  have  not  interrupted  me;  the  story  is 
all  over.  It  was  not  very  long  to  tell." 

"Oh  no;  let  me  finish  it.  You  saw  me; 
and  I  was  poor  and  obscure  ;  and  you  found  no 
difficulty  in  taking  the  chance  word  of  a  good- 
natured,  thoughtless  girl  as  decisive  of  my  fate  ; 
and  you  hurried  back,  and  married  your  friend 
and  patron,  who  had  influence  and  power.  You 
were  grateful  to  him — quite  right ;  and  he  ex- 
acted his  recompense  for  what  he  had  done,  and 
you  gave  him  yourself  as  his  reward.  Well,  I 
offer  you  my  congratulations,  and  to  him  too. 
I  am  late  in  the  expression  of  my  good  wishes, 
but  you  must  remember  how  well  you  kept  the 
secret  of  your  happiness,  and  that  I  thought  you 
were  a  widow,  not  a  wife." 

I  saw  Christina's  cheek  flush,  and  her  eyes 
first  sparkle  and  then  fill  with  tears;  but  I  was 
not  in  a  mood  to  be  stayed.  Every  thing  seemed 
to  have  conspired  to  make  me  savage,  and  some 
infernal  spirit  within  appeared  to  drive  me  on, 
adding  word  to  word. 

"Emanuel!" 

"  Yes ;  I  thought  you  were  a  widow.  So,  I 
suppose,  did  your  other  friend  and  patron,  Mr. 
Lyndon.  He  surely  is  not  in  your  secrets  ?  Or 
is  he  supposed  to  be  your  husband's  friend,  ap- 
pointed to  console  you,  and  give  you  courage  in 
his  absence  and  his  dangers  ?" 

"  I  have  at  least  had  no  reason,  as  yet,  to  re- 
pent of  any  confidence  I  may  have  placed  in 
him,  as  I  have  now  to  repent  of  the  confidence 
I  placed  in  you.  Emanuel,  I  know  you  will  be 
ashamed  of  your  bitterness  and  your  cruelty, 
and  I  forgive  you  beforehand.  I  know  you 
have  reason  to  complain.  I  owe  you  some- 
thing, too ;  let  me  pay  a  part  of  my  obligation 
by  bearing  patiently  any  insult  you  may  choose 
to  offer.  You  do  not  know  how  cruel  you  are. 
I  have  striven  to  be  a  devoted  and  loyal  wife  to 
my  husband,  as  a  brave  German  woman  ought 
to  be ;  and  I  have  suffered  much  ;  and  if  I  have 
had  my  ambition,  it  has  not  been  fed  for  no- 
thing, or  bought  without  heavy  penalty;  and 
of  the  old  days  nothing  remains ;  and  now  you 
insult  and  scorn  me.  It  is  much ;  but  I  bear 
it  for  the  sake  of  old  memories." 

She  had  been  seated  on  a  sofa.  She  now 
stood  up  and  leaned  against  the  chimney-piece, 
and  tossed  her  bright  mass  of  hair  buck  over 


her  shoulders  with  the  old  familiar  impatient 
action  of  one  whom  the  weight  of  it  oppressed 
in  a  moment  of  excitement.  She  looked  so 
like  the  Christina  of  old' that  my  anger  melted 
away,  and  I  bitterly  repented  my  hasty  words. 

"I  am  always  asking  you  to  forgive  me, 
Christina  ;  I  must  ask  you  now  again,  sincere- 
ly and  humbly,  for  pardon.  I  was  very  bitter, 
and  rude,  and  brutal,  and  I  knew  how  unjust 
I  was  even  at  the  time.  But  I  only  ask  you  to 
make  some  allowance  for  me.  You  know  how 
I  loved  you.  Oh,  I  am  speaking  now  only  of 
the  past,  and  I  might  say  it  if  your  husband 
stood  there !  I  loved  you  deeply.  No  woman 
can  be  loved  so  twice  in  a  life." 

"  I  know  it,  Emanuel,  and  I  do  forgive  you, 
freely  and  fully,  your  harsh  words.  You  too 
must  make  allowance  for  me.  My  life  is  an 
anxious  one  in  many  ways.  So  far  it  has  been 
a  failure  ;  and  yet  the  best  has  passed.  When 
I  look  at  you,  Emanuel,  and  make  you  my  own 
mirror,  I  see  that  I  too  am  no  longer  young. 
What  a  handsome,  fair -haired  boy  you  were 
when  I  first  saw  you !  How  many  years  ago  ?" 

"Twelve  years  ago." 

"  How  old  are  you  now  ?  You  may  tell  me  ; 
I  shall  not  betray  confidence." 

"I  don't  know — thirty-two  or  three." 

"Ach  Gott! — so  old!  And  I  am— but  that 
does  not  concern  you  to  know.  Yes,  youth  is 
gone  for  both  of  us.  I  am  talking  wildly  to- 
day, am  I  not  ?  Yes,  I  can't  help  it ;  but  I 
don't  often  get  into  these  moods.  Youth  is 
gone." 

She  turned  to  the  mirror  over  the  chimney- 
piece,  and  still  keeping  back  her  hair,  gazed 
intently  into  her  own  face.  Truth  to  speak, 
with  all  its  lustrous  beauty,  there  were  faint, 
faint  marks  under  the  eyes,  which  hinted  mourn- 
fully of  Time's  premature  footprints. 

"I  Avas  handsome,  Emanuel,  when  a  girl — 
was  I  not  ?" 

She  spoke  without  turning  to  me. 

"You  were  beautiful ;  but  surely  you  must 
know  that  you  are  still" — I  was  going  to  say, 
"that  you  are  still  beautiful;"  but  the  expres- 
sion of  her  face  was  so  entirely  abstracted  and 
distraite  that  the  compliment,  if  it  could  be 
called  one,  died  tipo'n  my  lips. 

"  Yes,"  she  went  on,  almost  as  one  who  talks 
in  a  dream,  "I  was  very  handsome,  and  very, 
very  ambitious.  I  thought  I  was  born  for 
something  great  —  born,  perhaps,  to  conquer 
the  world.  You  could  not  know  how  ambi- 
tious I  was,  and  how  my  heart  was  set  on  suc- 
cess ;  and  nothing  has  come  of  it,  after  ail." 

"Nothing!  and  you  the  most  successful  of 
the  day  ?" 

"Yes,  the  most  successful  of  the  day,  but 
who  will  be  the  most  successful  of  to-morrow  ? 
I  shall  sing,  perhaps,  another  season  or  two, 
and  then  be  forgotten.  I  know  well  enough 
that  I  am  not  like  Giulia  Grisi.  There  is  a 
singer  to  be  remembered.  I  shall  be  extin- 
guished when  I  cease  to  sing.  My  success 
will  die  with  the  echo  of  my  voice.  I  have 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


97 


HOW   MANY   YEARS  AGO?" 


often  thought  that  I  am  like  the  man  in  my 
much-loved  Schiller's  play,  who  says  he  staked 
his  happiness  and  his  heaven  on  being  a  hero, 
and  in  the  end  no  hero  was  there,  only  a  fail- 


ure.' 


G 


She  leaned  now  on  the  chimney-piece,  and 
still  contemplated  her  own  face.  I  dare  say  an 
ordinary  looker-on  would  have  thought  there 
was  something  theatric  and  self-conscious  in 
her  attitudes  and  her  ways.  I  did  not  think 


98 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


there  was.  From  her  childhood  almost — she 
was  little  more  than  a  child  when  first  I  knew 
her — there  was  that  rare  and  striking  harmony 
of  mind  and  body  in  her  which  made  every 
word  find  unconsciously  its  natural  expression 
in  some  gesture  or  attitude.  This  was  not  sure- 
ly, one  would  have  thought,  a  German  attri- 
bute. Still  less  was  it  a  faculty  any  one  can  get 
up,  or  even  cultivate.  It  came  by  nature.  It 
made  her  a  successful  actress  ;  it  made  her 
seem  natural  on  the  stage,  because  every  ac- 
tion expressed  so  easily  and  gracefully  the  emo- 
tion which  suggested  it ;  it  made  her  seem  the- 
atric oif  the  stage,  because  so  few  people  either 
will  or  can  allow  their  moods  to  find  any  out- 
ward expression  beyond  that  of  voice  and  com- 
plexion. 

She  suddenly  turned  to  me,  and  going  back 
to  the  earlier  part  of  our  conversation,  she  said  : 

"  You  think  I  kept  all  this  purposely  a  secret 
from  you?" 

I  knew,  of  course,  she  meant  her  marriage 
and  its  story. 

"I  did  think  so,  Christina." 

"Well,  perhaps  it  was  partly  a  secret  —  at 
least,  until  I  could  learn  what  sort  of  person 
time  and  change  had  made  you.  Perhaps  you 
did  not  at  first  show  yourself  in  a  manner  which 
greatly  invited  confidence.  Perhaps  I  fancied 
that  you  already  knew  nearly  all  the  truth. 
Perhaps  I  may  have  thought — "  and  she  stopped 
and  sighed,  and  then  smiled  a  strange,  nervous, 
painful  smile  I  did  not  like  to  see.  Then  she 
made  a  quick  gesture  with  both  hands  as  if  she 
flung  the  subject  from  her,  and  came  back  to 
her  seat.  Looking  at  her  watch,  she  said  : 

"  My  husband  will  be  here  soon.  You  know 
now  why  I  was  so  much  confused  and  embar- 
rassed the  last  day  you  were  here  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  that  was  his  signal  I  heard  ?" 

"  It  was.  He  always  whistles  those  few  bars 
— first  once,  then  again  with  the  slight  varia- 
tion ;  and  I  know  he  is  coming.  That  is,  you 
understand,  when  I  have  not  seen  him  for  some 
time — when  his  coming  is  unexpected ;  and  it 
may  be  necessary  to  make  some  preparation  to 
get  rid  of  inconvenient  visitors — " 

"  Like  me  ?" 

"Like  you  that  last  day,  before  he  knew  you 
or  had  given  me  leave  to  trust  you.  Oh,  I  am 
thoroughly  disciplined  and  obedient  to  him,  be- 
lieve me.  I  have  heard  that  whistle  in  many 
places— in  places  where  I  knew  that  a  mistake 
or  a  delay,  or  a  precipitate  motion  on  my  part, 
might  involve  his  discovery  and  his  death.  I 
did  not  expect  to  hear  it  so  soon,  although  I 
knew  that  the  plan  for  his  escape  out  of  the 
Lombard  prison  was  in  good  hands  and  pro- 
gressing well.  I  have  not  a  genius  for  conspir- 
acy, Emanuel,  and  they  don't  trust  me  much 
with  details ;  even  lie  does  not.  I  wait  and 
watch  and  keep  the  secrets,  and  do  faithfully 
as  I  am  told.  And  I  have  denationalized  my- 
self for  his  sake,  and  forgotten  my  country ; 
indeed,  had  I  not  forgotten  it  long  ago  ?  and  I 
have  learned  to  hope  that  the  German  soldiers 


may  one  day  be  chased  across  the  Alps.  My 
husband  is  a  man  to  inspire  any  one  with  his 
own  hopes  and  his  own  will,  as  you  are  sure  to 
discover  before  long." 

A  card  was  put  into  Christina's  hand,  and 
she  directed  that  the  visitor  should  be  shown 
up. 

" It  is  he"  she  whispered  to  me  when  the 
servant  had  left  the  room.  "Here,  just  now, 
he  is  only  on  my  ordinary  visiting-list.  He  is 
to  me  an  Italian  patriot  who  honors  me  with 
his  acquaintance — no  more." 

In  a  moment  Signor  Salaris  entered. 

I  do  not  know  whether  he  had  expected  to 
find  her  alone,  but  in  the  mere  flash  of  time 
from  his  announcement  to  his  reaching  Chris- 
tina, I  saw  three  distinct  changes  of  expression 
in  his  face.  His  wife  stood  at%ne  side  of  the 
chimney-piece,  nearly  opposite  the  door ;  I  had 
fallen  back  to  one  of  the  windows  looking  into 
Jermyn  Street.  As  he  came  in  I  could  see 
him,  but  he,  naturally  looking  directly  before 
him,  did  not  see  me.  He  crossed  the  threshold, 
therefore,  with  the  formal  bow  of  an  ordinary 
visitor,  and  the  corresponding  expression.  Ap- 
parently then,  as  he  only  saw  his  wife,  he  as- 
sumed that  she  was  alone,  and  his  pale  face 
lighted  up  with  a  warm  and  bright  expression, 
and  he  seemed  for  the  instant,  the  second,  like 
one  rejoicing  to  throw  off  a  weary  disguise. 
And  then  he  saw  me  ;  and  with  a  change  quick 
as  the  motion  of  light  itself,  his  countenance 
subsided  into  the  genial,  courteous  expression 
of  one  who  presents  himself  to  a  friend.  Prob- 
ably no  unprepared  eye  could  have  noted  these 
changes.  I  saw  them  clearly,  and  they  were 
significant  of  a  character  and  a  life. 

Christina  reassured  him  with  a  smile  and  a 
few  words. 

"My  dear  Carlo,  here  we  are  all  friends, 
and  3*ou  are  my  husband,  not  my  visitor." 

"Then  this  gentleman,"  he  said,  turning  to 
me  and  speaking  in  excellent  English,  though 
a  little  slow  and  with  a  deep  Italian  accent, 
"  this  is  Mr.  Temple  ?  I  might  have  known 
him,  indeed. — I  have  seen  and  heard  you  more 
than  oncte,  Mr.  Temple,  but  I  did  not  at  first 
recognize  you.  I  offer  you  my  hand ;  I  am,  if 
you  will  allow  me,  your  friend." 

I  gave  him  my  hand,  and  we  exchanged  a 
cordial  grasp.  I  think  both  our  faces  flushed. 
I  felt  mine  grow  hot.  •  I  know  that  across  his 
pale  cheek  something  faintly  approaching  to  a 
crimson  tinge  came  flashing,  and  a  strange  sud- 
den spasm  passed  over  it.  Can  we  be  friends  ? 
Here  is  the  man  who  has  robbed  me  of  Chris- 
tina; can  I  be  his  friend,  sincerely,  truly? 

I  think  so ;  at  least  I  will  try.  I  like  the 
expression  of  his  face ;  I  like  his  soft  dark  li- 
quid eyes,  with  an  expression  at  once  wild  and 
gentle  and  beseeching  in  them,  like  the  eyes  of 
a  gazelle ;  I  like  the  contrast  they  present  to 
the  rigid,  deep-thinking,  inflexible  expression 
of  the  brow  and  the  lips  and  the  chin.  I  feel 
sure  this  man  has  an  unconquerable  will,  and  a 
pure  tender  heart.  He  is  artist  and  conspirator 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


99 


in  one.  He  ought  to  have  lived  centuries  ago, 
and  been  a  minstrel  and  a  patriot  at  once.  Or 
he  ought  to  have  lived  half  a  century  back  or 
thereabouts,  and  been  a  Girondist  and  led  the 
chorus  of  the  Marseillaise  on  the  day  when  he 
and  his  brothers  went  out  to  die. 

Yes,  I  liked  the  man  at  once  ;  and  as  I  looked 
from  his  face  to  Christina's  and  noted  her  ex- 
pression, I  liked  him  all  the  better,  for  I  felt  an 
indescribable  pang  of  sympathy  and  pity  o  for 
him.  His  liquid  loving  eye  looked  melancholy 
when  it  turned  on  her,  and  hers  sank  beneath 
his  glance. 

We  talked  like  friends.  He  told  me  of  his 
escape  from  prison  in  a  pleasant  simple  kind  of 
way,  very  agreeable,  and  even  fascinating,  to 
hear.  There  was  a  quiet  modesty  about  all  he 
said  relating  to  himself  that  won  upon  one  im- 
mensely. We  talked  of  music  and  art,  on 
which  he  was  almost  eloquent.  When  for  a 
moment  the  conversation  lapsed  into  what  may 
be  called  generalities  and^onventional  talk,  he 
subsided  into  silence,  and  his  mind  evidently 
withdrew  itself  altogether  into  its  own  habitual 
thoughts. 

I  noted  that  Christina's  eye  always  quietly 
followed  his  expressions  of  feature ;  I  noted 
that  the  moment  he  lapsed  into  silence  she 
changed  the  conversation,  appealed  directly  to 
him  with  some  question  or  gther,  and  drew 
him  forward  again.  I  think  I  read  their  story. 
"  She  has  given  herself  to  him,"  I  thought, 
"  and  she  esteems  him,  -and  fears  for  him  ;  and 
she  would  love  him  if  she  could.  But  she  can 
not,  and  she  knows  it ;  and  neither  is  happy.  I 
read  in  his  face  high  aim,  and  courage,  and  ab- 
solute self-devotion,  and  brooding  perseverance 
— and  failure.  Whatever  his  hopes,  they  are 
doomed  to  fail." 

Heavy  and  blank  was  the  first  feeling  of  dis- 
appointment with  which  I  left  Christina's  house 
that  day,  knowing  as  a  certainty  and  for  the 
first  time  that  she  had  a  living,  loving  husband. 
But  was  I  only  disappointed — was  the  disap- 
pointment   utter   and   without    shade?      Was 
there  not  some  vague  perception  of  a  sense  of 
relief?     Month  after  month,  year  after  year,  I 
had  worn  myself  out  with  almost  unendurable 
agony  of  longing  and  disappointment,  hopes  and 
sickening  pangs  of  despair  ;  and  now  at  last  the 
doubt  and  the  conflict  of  feeling  were  over,  and 
I  was  released  from  the  struggle.     Now  the 
torment  of  hope  was  quelled ;  now  the  worst 
was  known;  now  thej|kterness  of  death  was 
past.      Many  a  man  fBlps,  says  the  jailer  in 
Scott's  romance,  the  night   before  he  is   exe- 
cuted, but  no  man  the  night  before  he  is  tried. 
Yes,  I  felt  a  sense  of  Belief.     I  should  tor- 
•ftture  myself 0with  doubt  wd  hope  no  more.     I 
«  should  Avalk  up  and  down  my  room  of  nights 
trying  to^  squeeze  hope  out  of  every  word  she 
had  uttered,  every  glance  I  had   caught — as 
shipwrecked    sailors    becalmed   on    a   burning 
southern  sea  stmve  to  squeeze  moisture  out  of 
rags — no  more.    I  should  rehearse  what  I  could 
say  when  next  we  met,  or  lament  that  I  had 


not  said  this  and  that  when  last  we  met — no 
more.  I  should  now  be  able  to  drudge  through 
my  life  unvexcd  because  hopeless.  A  resolve, 
too,  came  up  at  once  with  a  great  new  pang  of 
relief.  I  had  become  a  singer  and  taken  to  the 
lyric  stage  to  please  her,  to  Avin  her,  to  prove 
to  her  that  I  could  succeed ;  now  I  would  give 
it  up.  I  would  cease  to  sham  an  artist's  part, 
for  which  I  really  had  no  true  taste  or  soul.  I 
would  go  to  some  other  country,  to  America, 
and  see  my  brother.  How  fraternal  we  all 
grow,  how  we  think  of  far-off  brothers  and  sis- 
ters and  mothers,  when  some  woman  has  thrown 
us  over !  We  are  all  like  the  gamester  in  the 
famous  classic  comedy  of  France,  who  only  re- 
members her  to  whom,  he  owes  his  duty  when 
the  luck  of  the  night  has  gone  against  him. 
I  might  have  lived  long  enough  content  with 
very  rare  and  passing  scraps  of  news  from  my 
brother,  but  now  a  sudden  and  surprising  ten- 
derness had  sprang  up  in  my  heart,  and  I  won- 
dered how  I  had  existed  so  long  without  seeing 
him;  and  I  quite  resolved  to  go  out  to  the 
States,  and  perhaps,  with  strch  money  as  I  could 
get  together,  join  him  in  some  new  Western 
settlement,  and  be  a  farmer.  I  thought  of  my 
own  stout  and  sinewy  arms  and  rather  athletic 
frame,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that,  after 
all,  digging,  or  felling  trees,  or  hunting,  was 
the  sort  of  thing  for  which  Nature  had  clearly 
intended  me. 

In  a  word,  I  was  used  up,  and  wanted  a  new 
and  freshening  life.  I  envied  my  Italian  friend 
his  schemes  and  his  aspirations,  and  thought  I 
should  dearly  like  to  have  an  oppressed  nation- 
ality to  plot  for.  and  if  needs  were,  die  for; 
and  I  really  wished  I  could,  even  through  his 
nfluence,  get  up  within  myself  a  sort  of  bas- 
tard philo-Italianism,  and  fling  myself  into  the 
cause  of  Italy  as  so  many  Englishmen  were  be- 
ginning to  do  even  then,  and  as  Byron  and 
Stanhope,  and  Hastings  and  Finlay,  and  so 
many  others,  had  done  for  Greece.  But  I  was 
never  much  of  a  politician ;  and  I  was  so  sick 
of  the  stage  that  I  recoiled  from  the  notion  of 
converting  my  individual  life  into  a  new  piece 
of  acting.  I  had  long  come  to  think,  and  I  do 
still  think  it  seriously  and  profoundly,  that  no- 


thing in  life — no,  nothing  whaflver— is  so  envi- 
able as  the  capacity  to  merge  one's  individu- 
ality and  very  existence  wholly  in  some  great 
cause,  and  to  heed  no  personal  sacrifice  which 
is  offered  in  its  name.  I  don't  much  care 
whether  the  cause  be  political,  or  artistic,  or 
scientific,  or  what  not ;  let  there  but  be  a  cause 
to  which  the  individual  is  subjected,  in  which* 
he  freely  loses  himself,  and  I  hold  that  man 
happy,  if  man  can  ever  be  happy  at  all.  Nev- 
er had  it  been  my  fortunate  fate  to  have  found 
such  an  object.  My  own  profession  never  gave 
it  to  me.  Therefore  I  accounted  existence  so 
far  a  failure.  I  had  tried  many  modes  of  activ- 
ity and  amusement,  and  distraction  and  enjoy- 
ment, and  they  had  done  nothing  for  me,  be- 
cause'I  had  never  gone  deeply  enough  into  any 
path  of  life,  or  thought,  or  work ;  I  had  never 


100 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


had  a  cause  to  live  for,  and  I  might  as  well  n 
have  lived  at  all.     If  I  have  any  faith  left 
me,  it  is  that  faith  in  a  cause,  as  the  soul,  th 
grace,  the  beauty,  the  purpose  of  life. 

I  will  seek  then,  I  said  to  myself,  a  new  a 
tivity.  I  will  steep  life  in  freshness,  and  r 
color  it  in  the  dyes  of  new  sensations.  Ich  wi 
mein  Gliick  probiren — marschiren  ! 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

EXILE    AND     OUTCAST. 

YES  ;  I  began  to  think  seriously  of  going  t 
the  United  States,  making  my  way  out  West 
ward,  buying  land,  and  turning  farmer.    Vagu 
and  delightful  visions  of  the  forest  scenery  o 
the  New  World  filled  me ;    visions  of  wood 
where  tints,  which  in  our  European  region  w 
know  of  only  in  manufactured  colors,  mingl 
and  contrast  in  the  living  glory  of  the  autum 
nal  foliage.    Dreams  of  the  rolling  prairie,  anc 
the  deep  wine-coloffed  brooklet,  and  the  rushing 
river,  were  in  my  mind  and  before  my  senses 
It  seemed   to  me  that  nothing  but  the  fresl 
bosom  of  the  young  mother-Nature  of  the  Wes 
could  revive  my  exhausted  and  flagging  tern 
perament.     I  was  fast  growing  more  and  more 
weary  of  life  as  I  found  it,  and  as  I  made  it 
Heat  and  crowd,  and  midnight  suppers,  or  lone 
ly  midnight  grumblings  and    reflections,  per- 
petual excitement,  fatigue,  overwork,  too  mucl 
wine,  and  the  almost  incessant  cigar— these  be- 
gan to  take  effect  just  as  I  might  reasonably 
have  expected.    I  found  that  my  voice  already 
was  beginning  to  show  signs  of  suffering.     No- 
body else  noticed  it  yet ;  but  I  could  not  be  de- 
ceived.    I  consulted  a  medical  man,  who  rec- 
ommended rest  and  country  air ;  and  I  thought 
of  acting  on  his  advice  soon — some  time,  per- 
haps, when  the  season  was  over,  or  next  year, 
or  whenever  convenient. 

Meanwhile  I  went  on  as  before ;  I  mixed  a 
great  deal  with  joyous  company  of  all  kinds. 
A  positive  necessity  for  distraction  of  some  sort 
seemed  to  have  seized  hold  of  me,  and  it  even 
appeared  as  if  distraction  relieved  my  mind  and 
improved  my  p%sical  condition.  The  resolve 
to  give  up  the  stage  and  go  to  America  supplied 
a  delightful  excuse  and  temptation.  It  would 
be  clearly  a  waste  of  power,  an  unnecessary  vex- 
ation,  to  put  myself  under  heavy  restraint  just 
now,  when  so  short  a  time  was  to  bring  about  a 
total  change  of  life  and  habits.  The  fregh  man- 
;  ly  life  of  the  New  World  would  soon  restore  me 
to  that  physical  strength  and  brightness  of  tem- 
perament which  I  used  to  enjoy.  No  use,  then, 
in  beginning  any  reform  before  I  undertake  the 
enterprise  which  shall  change  scene  and  habits 
and  life  altogether. 

I  sometimes  even  thought  of  the  expediency 
of  marrying  and  ranging  myself,  taking  a  com- 
panion with  me  to  America  to  be  a  backwoods- 
man's wife.  But  I  always  ended  by  dismissing 
the  idea  as  one  that  brought  up  a  sensation  of 


repulsiveness  with  it.  To  begin  with,  I  knew 
nobody  whom  I  would  or  could  marry.  Most 
of  the  women  I  knew  were  singers  or  actresses  • 
and  I  saw  most  of  them  too  closely  to  be  likelv 
to  fall  in  love  with  any,  even-  if  a  deeper  and 
earlier  feeling  did  not  absorb  my  heart.  There 
was  one  to  whom  at  times  I  did  feel  myself 
slightly  attracted ;  she  was  the  little  French- 
woman with  whom  I  had  had  a  sort  of  flirta- 
tion on  the  evening  when  I  otherwise  made  a 

ol  of  myself  at  Christina's  apartments.  She 
did  not  discourage  my  attentions  whenever  they 
wera  offered,  and  I  did  sometimes  pay  court  to 
her.  She  was  young  and  very  pretty.  She  was 
not  witty  or  intellectual,  or  gifted  with  any  con- 
versational power  beyond  what  mere  animal  vi- 
vacity or  flow  of  talk  may  give.  I  do  not  know 
why  on  earth  I  cared  for  her  company,  except 
that  she  was  easy  of  access  and  full  of  life,  and 
her  society  served  to  distract  me,  just  as  smok- 
ing or  drinking  might. 

My  new  friend,  wfo  called  herself  Mile.  Fi- 
nola,  and  was  the  daughter,  I  came  to  know, 
of  a  fat  couple  who  sold  slippers  in  one  of  the 
passages  of  the  Palais  Royal,  was  a  girl  with 
a  very  agreeable  light  French  sort  of  soprano 
voice,  and  pleasing  vivacious  ways,  and  an  in- 
ordinate amount  of  self-conceit.     She  was  not 
by  any  means  a  bad  little  person,  and  would 
•ather,  all  things  being  equal,  do  a  kindly  thing 
han  not.     She  was,  I  have  no  doubt,  practical- 
y,  or  as  Heine  would  say,  anatomically,  virtu- 
ous ;  but  she  had  no  particular  prejudice  in  fa- 
vor of  virtue,  and  probably  never  troubled  her- 
elf  much  by  thinking  on  the  subject.      Her 
deas  of  life  consisted  of  flattery,  singing,  lyr- 
cal  successes,  complimentary  critiques  in  news- 
papers, jewels,  crinoline  (crinoline  was  rather  a 
new  fashion  then),  pleasant  little  dinners  and 
uppers,  carriages,  and  a  fair  prospect  of  a  brill- 
ant  match.      She   had  no   more  true   lyrical 
enius  than  an  Italian  boy's  monkey ;  but  she 
ometimes  captivated  audiences,  and  set  them 
pplauding  with  a  genuine  enthusiasm  which 
Pasta  might  have  failed  to  arouse.     She  had 
quick  arch  way  of  glinting  with  her  eyes, 
-hich  conveyed  to  some  people  an  idea  of  im- 
mense latent  humor  and  espieglerie,  that,  I  can 
nswer  for  it,  had  no  existence  in  my  little 
riend's  mental  constitution.     She  turned  her 
right  beaming  orbs  in  flashing  rapidity  from 
alls  to  boxes  in  a  manner  which  irresistibly 
cept  attention  alive.     Who  could  Avithdraw  his 
nterest  for  a  momenj^pm  the  stage  when  he 
JRh 


ould  not  tell  but  thi^Rie  very  next  moment 
hose  glittering  laughing  brown  eyes  might 
oguishly  seek  out  his  own  ?  She  had  appar- 
ntly  the  faculty  of  ejje-flirting  with  every  man 

a  whole  theatre  inllrn.  Then  ghe  shrugged 
er  very  full,  white,  and  bare  shoulders  with 

ch  a  piquancy,  and  had  such  quick  graceful 
estures,  and  so  fluttered  her  pretty 'plumage, 
mt  it  was  quite  a  pleasant  sight  to  see.  Of 
ourse  all  this  told  with  muqh  more  decided 
ffect  in  the  Italiens,  or  some  such  house,  than 

one  of  our  great  temples  of  opera ;  but  even 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


101 


in  our  vast  house  it  had  its  effect  upon  the  lim- 
ited section  from  whom  the  rest  of* the  audi- 
ence, and  the  town  generally,  took  their  time. 

Not,  however,  to  be  merely  piquante  and  vi- 
vacious, Mile.  Finola  had  a  way  of  throwing  a 
momentary  gleam  of  tender  softness  into  her 
eyes,  and  looking  pensively  before  her,  as  if 
consciousness  had  withdrawn  itself  wholly  from 
the  audience,  and  buried  itself  in  the  depths  of 
some  sweet  inner  sadness ;  and  she  so  thrilled 
out  a  prolonged,  plaintive,  and  dreamy  note, 
that  people  sometimes  declared  her  pathetic 
power  quite  equal  to  her  humor  and  vivacity. 
When  ordinary  observers  note  any  little  effect 
produced  with  ease  they  are  apt  to  believe  that 
the  performer  has  a  capacity  for  doing  some- 
thing infinitely  greater,  if  he  or  she  would  only 
try,  and  did  but  care  to  succeed.  A  sad  mis- 
take generally ;  for  on  the  stage  and  in  real 
life  we  almost  invariably  do  all  we  can  and  the 
best  we  can ;  and  that  which  you  see  is  the 
display  of  our  whole  stock  of  capability.  But 
audiences  could  not  readily  believe  that  the 
one  little  bit  of  effective  show  had  exhaust- 
ed Mile.  Finola's  whole  resources.  The  result  | 
was  that  in  her  own  parts,  Rosinas,  Figlias  del 
Reggimento,  and  so  on,  she  was  greatly  ad- 
mired, and  her  little  tricks  of  instinctive  co- 
quetry and  vivacity  were  accepted  by  many  as 
the  deliberate  and  triumphant  efforts  of  grace- 
ful art,  if  not  indeed  the  stray  sparks  which 
indicated  the  existence  of  a  latent  fire  of  true 
lyrical  genius. 

Now  this  little  personage  was  beginning  to 
be  very  popular  about  the  time  when  Christina's 
husband  came  to  London.  She  had  not,  in- 
deed, come  as  yet  into  any  sort  of  antagonism 
or  rivalry  with  Madame  Reichstein,  and  they 
never  sang  together ;  but  Finola's  nights  were 
usually  very  successful,  and  she  was  even  rally- 
ing a  sort  of  party  round  her  both  in  audiences 
and  critics.  Perhaps  Christina's  passionate,  en- 
thusiastic style  had  begun  to  be  too  much  for 
some  of  her  hearers.  True  art  is  a  sad  strain 
upon  the  intellects  of  many  of  us ;  and  little1 
Finola  was  a  great  relief.  She  was  Offenbach 
after  Meyerbeer ;  and  a  good  many  occupants 
of  opera-stalls  to-day  know  what  that  means, 
and  can  appreciate  the  charming  relaxation  to 
wearied  inanity  which  it  implies.  And  though 
not  as  yet  any  thing  of  a  rival  to  Christina, 
Finola  was  beginning  to  be  talked  about  a  good 
deal.  I  don't  think  Christina  at  this  time  cared 
in  the  least,  or  grudged  the  little  thing  any 
sprays  of  laurel  that  might  fall  to  her.  But  she 
always  affected  to  think  me  an  admirer  of  Fi- 
nola, one  of  Finola's  party,  and  indeed,  more 
than  that,  one  of  FinDla's  lovers ;  and  at  last, 
out  of  pure  spleen  at  being  so  set  down,  I  acted 
intentionally  as  if  I  were  one  of  that  silly  throng ; 
and  as  Mile.  Finola  liked  flirting  with  any  one, 
she  showed  herself  willing  enough  to  flirt  with 
me.  .* 

I  have  spoken  of  all  this  for  the  purpose  of 
showing  how  matters  stood  as  regarded  Chris- 
tina and  myself  just  about  the  time  when  her 


husband  made  his  appearance  so  unexpectedly 
in  London.  We — Christina  and  I — were  on 
strange,  cold,  almost  unfriendly  terms,  so  far 
as  all  outer  appearances  went.  Mv  soul  was 
still  filled  with  love  for  her,  wildly  dashed  some- 
times with  a  bitterness  not  much  unlike  hate. 
She,  on  her  side,  seemed  to  me  to  be  leading 
the  life  almost  of  a  frivolous,  careless,  heartless 
coquette ;  I  was  drifting  away  from  all  my  old 
moorings  of  steadfastness  and  perseverance  and 
I  patience,  and  becoming  an  idler  with  the  idle ; 
j  I  drank  midnight,  and  thought  midnight,  as 
the  phrase  has  it.  With  the  sudden  appear- 
ance of  the  Italian  exile  came  a  change  in  all 
our  relationships;  chance,  utter  chance,  con- 
spired with  his  own  character  and  purpose,  and 
the  place  he  held  in  Christina's  life,  to  make 
his  presence  the  source  of  change  and  event  to 
all  of  us. 

In  a  very  short  time  after  his  coming,  Signer 
Salads  became  the  recognized  lion  of  the  Lon- 
don, season.  He  had,  in  the  impresario's  sense 
of  the  word,  quite  a  wonderful  success.  He 
delivered  lectures  on  his  imprisonment  and  his 
escape,  which  crowded  Willis's  Rooms,  and 
filled  King  Street  with  coroneted  carriages. 
He  pleaded  the  cause  of  his  country ;  he  called 
upon  England  to  regard  the  independence  of 
Italy  as  Europe's  mo£t  pressing  and  vital  ques- 
tion ;  and  countesses  clapped  their  kid-gloved 
hands  and  waved  their  perfumed  handkerchiefs. 
He  dined  now  with  a  Cabinet  minister,  and  now 
with  the  leader  of  the  Opposition.  He  spent 
great  part  of  his  time  at  Mr.  Lyndon's.  He 
was  intrigued  for  and  battled  for  as  the  attrac- 
tion of  evening  parties.  He  bore  it  all  patient- 
ly, as  one  who  does  a  work  of  drudgery  with  a 
good  object ;  but  he  smiled  sadly  and  shook  his 
head  when  one  congratulated  him  privately  on 
his  success.  I  once  told  him  he  ought  to  be  a 
proud  man.  He  said  he  felt  profoundly  dis- 
couraged. A  great  illusion,  he  calmly  said, 
was  gone.  England,  he  now  knew,  would  do 
nothing  for  his  country.  He  had  come  to  plead 
for  protection  and  help.  He  found  himself  the 
hero  of  a  carnival  scene,  pelted  with  flowers  and 
sugar-plums. 

I  am  not  a  politician,  and  this  is  not  a  polit- 
ical story.  I  introduce  the  subject  of  Salaris 
and  his  success,  because  at  this  time  in  one 
way,  as  later  in  another,  it  affected  my  own 
life. 

I  went  one  evening  to  hear  my  new  friend 
tell  his  story  and  make  his  appeal  in  Willis's 
Rooms.  I  went  alone ;  the  room  was  crowded  ; 
Mr.  Lyndon,  M.P. ,  presided.  There  were  pres- 
ent what  Ned  Lambert  would  have  called  "no 
end  of  swells."  Salaris  was  speaking  when  I 
got  in.  He  was  really  not,  in  the  rhetorical 
sense,  an  eloquent  man.  He  had  nothing  of 
Kossuth  about  him,  nor  had  his  style  any  thing 
of  the  poetic  grandiloquence  of  Mazzini.  He 
talked  in  a  simple,  severe,  unpretending  sort  of 
way,  with  hardly  any  gesticulation.  The  sin- 
cerity of  his  purpose,  the  clear  straightforward- 
ness of  his  language,  the  sweetness  of  his  ex- 


102 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


pression,  made  the  great  charm  which,  added, 
of  course,  to  the  romantic  nature  of  his  recent 
escape,  delighted  the  West  End.  He  was  a 
novelty  in  the  way  of  exiles.  He  positively 
seemed,  I  heard  a  lady  near  me  remark,  quite 
like  an  English  gentleman.  In  fact,  the  Thad- 
deus  of  Warsaw  personage  was  played  out ;  and 
the  West  End  now  thrilled  with  a  new  sensa- 
tion, to  see  an  escaped  and  exiled  patriot  who 
looked  like  an  ordinary  gentleman,  and  spoke 
as  composedly  as  a  financial  member  of  Par- 
liament. 

I  looked  round  the  room,  expecting  to  see 
Christina  there.  I  was  not  disappointed.  She 
was  seated  two  or  three  rows  of  seats  away  from 
me,  and  she  looked  very  handsome,  but  melan- 
choly, and  a  little  fatigued.  She  was  apparent- 
ly not  listening  much  more  attentively  than  I 
was.  She  saw  me,  and  nodded  a  salutation, 
and  whispered  something  to  a  lady  at  her  side. 
The  lady,  who  seemed  to  have  been  listening 
very  closely  to  the  speaker,  looked  up,  and 
glanced  toward  me.  She  was  very  youngT— 
about  nineteen,  perhaps — with  a  delicate,  clear- 
ly-shaped, youthful  Madonna  face,  and  eyes  that 
had  a  tender  violet  light  in  them.  They  were 
eyes  that  did  not  flash  or  glitter  or  sparkle. 
They  rested  on  you  with  a  quiet  luminous  depth, 
•like  the  light  a  planet  seenjs  to  give.  Her  face 
had  a  thoughtful,  sweet,  almost  sad  expression 
until  the  violet  light  arising  in  the  eyes  suffused 
the  whole  countenance  with  its  genial  radiancy. 
It  was  a  face  not  to  be  forgotten,  once  you  had 
seen  it ;  and  I  had  not  forgotten  it,  for  I  had 
seen  it  before,  and'had  many  a  time  wished  to 
see  it  again.  It  was  the  face  of- Mr.  Lyndon's 
youngest  daughter;  the  girl  to  whom  I  had 
spoken  in  Palace  Yard  when  wild  Stephen  Lyn- 
don made  his  absurd  mistake. 

Did  you  ever  on  an  evening  of  reckless  revel- 
ry, .amidst  an  atmosphere  steaming  with  heat 
and  lights  and  the  fumes  of  wine,  in  a  room 
ringing  with  laughter  and  frivolity,  suddenly 
open  a  window,  and  looking  out  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  blue  summer  heaven  and  the  pure  light 
of  the  stars  ?  If  so,  you  will  understand  how  I 
felt  when  I  looked  up  from  the  increasing  de- 
generacy of  my  life,  with  its  foolish  excitements 
and  its  ban-en  spasmodic  passion,  and  saw  the 
face  of  Lilla  Lyndon. 

I  glanced  many  times  to  Avhere  she  sat,  and  I 
forgot  the  cause  of  Italy's  independence.  Once, 
only  once,  she  looked  toward  me. 

There  was  a  slight  movement  on  the  platform ; 
a  letter  was  handed  to  Mr.  Lyndon.  That  gen- 
tleman said  a  word  to  the  lecturer,  who  at  once 
stopped,  bowed,  and  drew  back ;  and  Mr.  Lyn- 
don rising  came  to  the  front  and  apologized  for' 
having  to  leave  the  chair.  He  was  obliged  to 
£O  down  to  the  House  immediately.  His  dis- 
tinguished friend,  the  Dean  of  some  place  or 
other,  whose  remarkable  work  recently  pub- 
lished had  proved  how  well  he  understood  the 
Italian  question  and  how  thoroughly  he  sympa- 
thized with  the  cause  of  Italy,  had  kindly  con- 
sented to  take  the  chair.  There  was  a  murmur  , 


i  of  genteel  applause  for  Mr.  Lyndon,  another  for 

'  the  Dean,  as  the  latter  gracefully  threw  himself 
into  the  vacated  chair ;  and  then  Mr.  Lyndon 
disappeared  from  the  platform,  t*he  lecture  went 

}  on,  and  the  audience  settled  itself  to  listen  as 
before. 

Once,  and  only  once,  did  Salaris  make  any 
attempt  at  eloquence ;  and  even  that  was  but 

I  the  eloquence  of  passionate  conviction.  It  was 
at  the  close,  where  he  proclaimed,  rather  than 
merely  predicted,  to  his  hearers  that,  let  who 
would  be  friend  or  foe,  the  day  of  Italy's  inde- 
pendence was  sure  and  near.  "Only  yester- 
day, "he  said,  "  an  English  lady— I  see' her  now 
in  this  room— gave  me  as  an  omen  of  good  a 
translation  of  a  noble  poem  by  a  great  living 
poet,  a  German,  which  bids  my  country  be  of 
good  cheer  and  expect  her  deliverance.  Wilr 
you  listen  to  a  few  lines  ?  The  German  poet 
reminds  my  country  of  the  story  of  Penelope : 
how  she  was  fair,  and  persecuted  for  her  beau- 
ty, and  how  the  reckless  strangers  reveled  in 
her  hall : 

'  Twenty  years  the  purple  tissue  span  she  weeping  on 

her  throne; 
Twenty  years  iu  bitter  sorrow  nurtured  her  beloved 

son; 
Twenty  years  remained  she  faithful  to  her  husband 

and  her  name — 
Weeping,   hoping,   sending   seekers  — lo,  ,and   her 

Ulysses  came ! 

'Woe  to  the  audacious  wooers  when  they  heard  the 

avenger's  tread, 
And   the   bitter   death  -  charged   arrows   from   his 

clanging  bow  were  sped; 
With  the  red  blood  of  the  strangers  hall  and  pavement 

dripping  lay, 
And  a  fearful  feast  of  vengeance  then  was  held  at 

Ithaca. 

'Knowest  thou  that  song,  Italia?     Listen,  and  in 

patience  wait, 
Even  although  the'swarm  of  strangers  throng  through 

thy  ancestral  gate ; 
Rear  thy  sons  to  fearless  manhood,  though  with 

many  a  burning  tear ; 
Wait  and  hope ;  thy  hour  is  coming :  thy  Ulysses  too 

is  near.' " 

fTo  the  closing  lines  he  gave  all  the  dignity,  the 
thrilling  force,  the  strength  of  pathos  and  of 
hope,  which  the  words  deserved,  and  which  his 
penetrating  voice,  his  noble  earnestness,  his  ex- 
pression, now  animated,  could  lend.  "It  is," 
he  added,  slowly,  "the  poetry,  the  hope,  the 
encouragement  of  a  German!  Quod  minime 
reris!  The  sympathy  and  the  hope  are  the 
more  welcome,  the  more  delightful.  I  accept 
the  omen  for  my  country,  and  I  say  to  her : 

1  Wait  and  hqpe ;  thy  hour  is  coming ;  thy  Ulysses  too 
is  near.' " 

He  remained  for  a  moment  motionless  and 
silent,  and  the  audience  did  not  know  whether 
he  had  finished  or  not ;  then  his  hand  dropped 
upon  the  desk  near  him,  and  he  bowed  to  the 
assemblage,  and  drew  back  from  the  front  of 
the  platform. 

There  was  quite  a  cordial  and  enthusiastic 
demonstration  of  applause  ;  and  then  began  the 
rustling  of  silks,  and  calling  of  carriages,  and 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


103 


the  babble  of  talk  with  acquaintances,  and  the 
crowding  .on  the  stairs. 

The  moment  the  movement  of  departure  be- 
gan Madame  Keichstein  invited  me  by  a  look  to 
come  to  her.  She  and  Miss  Lyndon  had  with- 
drawn into  a  corner  a  little  out  of  the  stream  of 
»the  departing  crowd.  I  made  my  way  through 
groups  of  people  and  over  trailing  skirts  to  where 
they  stood. 

"  How  did  you  like  it  ?"  were  Christina's  first 
words ;  and  then,  without  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer, she  said,  "I  wish  to  introduce  you  to  Miss 
Lyndon — Miss  Lilla  Lyndon." 

Before  the  ceremony  of  introduction  was  well 
through  two  or  three  acquaintances  closed  round 
Madame  Reichstein,  and  Miss  Lyndon  and  I 
were  left  for  the  moment  together. 

"Am  I  wrong,  Mr.  Temple,"  she  said,  "in 
thinking  that  we  have  met  and  spoken  together 
before  ?" 

"No,  Miss  Lyndon,  you  are  quite  right." 

"  That  day  in  Palace  Yard,  when  that  poor 
man  came  up  and  stopped  the  carriage  and  called 
me  by  my  name?" 

"  That  was  the  day.  You  have  a  good  mem- 
ory." 

"It  made  a  painful  impression  on  me,  that 
scene  and  that  poor  man.  I  thought  I  could 
not  have  been  mistaken,  Mr.  Temple,  in  you, 
when  I  saw  you  a  few  nights  ago  for  the  first 
time  since  that  day.  May  I  congratulate  you 
now  on  your  success — on  the  name  you  have 
won  since  I  first  saw  you  ?  It  always  gave  me 
pleasure*  to  believe  that  it  was  you  with  whom  I 
had  spoken  that  day,  for  you  were  kind  to  that 
strange  poor  creature." 

This  was  a  subject  that  somewhat  embar- 
rassed me ;  I  turned  to  something  else. 

"The  lines  that  Signer  Salaris  recited  were 
translated  by  you,  Miss  Lyndon,  I  venture  to 
think  ?" 

"  They  were.     Did  you  like  them  ?" 

"  I  thought  them  noble  in  spirit,  and  I  hope 
prophetic  ;  and  they  sounded  to  me — I  have  not 
seen  the  original — like  a  pure  and  exquisite 
translation." 

"I  am  very  glad  ;  they  are  Geibel's.  They 
seemed  to  me  prophetic,  and  so  I  showed  them 
to  Signer  Salaris.  He  is  a  noble  creatui-e,  and  I 
hope  whatever  he  engages  in  may  succeed  ;  but 
I  don't  understand  much  of  Italian  affairs." 

"Nor  I,  indeed,  Miss  Lyndon." 

"  Not  you  ?  And  yet  you  ought  to  be  at 
least  a  sort  of  step-son  of  Italy." 

"I  only  know  my  step-mother's  voice.  Her 
interests  she  keeps  for  her  own  children." 

"We  are  going,  Emanuel,"  said  Christina, 
who  was  leaning  on  the  arm  of  some  gentle- 
man. 

I  offered  Miss  Lyndon  my  arm,  and  she  lean- 
ed on  it :  1  felt  the  pressure  of  her  light  touch, 
and  I  was  thrilled  by  it. 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Temple,"  she  said,  as 
we  descended  the  stairs,  "I  have  never  ceased 
to  think  that  there  was  some  mystery  about  that 
man  in  Palace  Yard  which  I  ought  to  know,  and 


that  you  could  explain  it.  How  did  he  come 
to  know  my  name,  and  why  did  his  face  seem 
so  strange,  and  yet  so  familiar  to  me?  Will 
you  tell  me?'' 

"Pray,  Miss  Lyndon,  don't  ask  me;  I  can 
not  tell  you  any  thing  about  him — at  least  not 
now ;  not  without  thinking  over  it.  The  secret, 
if  it  be  one,  may  not  be  mine  to  tell." 

"Then  there  is  something?" 

"There  is." 

"And  he  had  some  reason  for  knowing  me 
and  calling  me  by  my  name?" 

"Pray  don't  ask  any  more.     He  had." 

"I  knew  it,"  she  said;  and  an  unconscious 
vibration  passed  from  her  arm  to  mine. 

"  Some  time,  Miss  Lyndon,  you  may  know 
all ;  and  it  may  be  in  your  power  to  do  good  by 
the  knowledge  to  people  who  are  unhappy,  and 
who  don't  deserve  to  be  so." 

She  looked  into  my  face,  with  surprise  and 
deep  interest  in  her  clear  pensive  eyes. 

Christina  was  already  at  the  door  of  her  lit- 
tle brougham  waiting  for  us.  I  handed  Miss 
Lyndon  in.  Christina  gave  me  her  hand  with- 
out a  word,  and  I  saw  a  strange  expression  in 
her  face,  as  if  something  had  both  perplexed 
and  irritated  her.  I  could  not  understand  it. 

Miss  Lyndon  held  out  her  delicate  little  hand 
with  a  frank  and  friendly  expression.  I  touched 
it,  and  the  light  pressure  lingered  long  with  me. 
As  I  left  the  place  I  felt  like  one  on  whom  the 
first  breath  of  some  purifying  and  sacred  in- 
fluence has  fallen.  The  presence  of  this  girl 
had  strangely  affected  me  when  first  I  saw  her, 
and  I  had  never  forgotten  the  sensation.  Now 
it  filled  me  almost  wholly.  It  was  indescriba- 
ble ;  at  least,  I  can  not  describe  it  any  better 
than  by  saying  that  while  the  presence  of 
Christina  seemed  to  allure  me  with  the  rich 
incense  of  flowers,  that  of  Lilla  Lyndon  made 
me  thoughtful  and  full  of  pure  regret  and  hu- 
mility, like  the  light  of  the  stars. 

In  most  stories  of  ghosts  And  demons  and 
warlocks  is  it  riot  sufficient  to  speak  of  the  odi- 
ous and  supernatural  ci'eature  in  order  to  evoke 
his  presence?  Apparently  some  spell  of  the 
same  kind  haunted  me  this  night.  Miss  Lyn- 
don and  I  had  spoken  of  the  Chan  who  accosted 
her  in  Palace  Yard ;  I  had  never  seen  him  since 
my  return  from  Italy.  I  had  hardly  got  a  dozen 
paces  from  the  door  of  Willis's  Rooms  when  I 
came  straight  on  him. 

Keeping  the  same  side  as  you  walk  from 
Willis's  Rooms  toward  St.  James's  Square,  you 
may  see  as  you  look  across  the  street  a  row  of 
white  and  stuccoed  houses  on  the  other  side, 
one  of  which  has  a  fame  attached  to  it.  When 
I  nearly  fell  over  Stephen  Lyndon  he  was  stand- 
ing on  the  edge  of  the  foot-path,  looking  up  at 
that  particular  house.  He  did  not  seem  a  day 
older  than  when  I  saw  him  last.  He  wore 
the  black  wig  as  before,  and  was  rather  better 
dressed  than  I  had  seen  him  on  some  former 
occasions,  though  not  up  to  the  mark  of  one 
memorable  occasion  when  he  came  out  resplen- 
dent. It  seemed  to  me,  too,  that  there  was  a 


104 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


little  more  of  quietness  and  caution  about  him 
than  was  his  wont  in  earlier  times. 

I  did  not  know  then  that  he  was  there  wait 
ing  for  me.  So  I  felt  vexed  when  I  nearly  rai 
up  against  him,  and  recognized  him  in  the  clea 
moonlight  of  a  beautiful  night,  and  saw  that  fa 
had  recognized  me,  and  there  was  no  escapi 
without  at  least  a  parley. 

"  Good -evening,  Temple,"  he  said,  in  the 
coolest  and  easiest  kind  of  way,  as  if  we  hac 
met  only  the  night  before  last ;  and  he  quietly 
laid  his  hand  on  my  arm  and  stayed  my  go 
ing  farther.      "  I  have  been  contemplating  tha 
house  over  there ;  the  first  of  the  row.     I  hav< 
been  meditating,  Temple.    An  exile  lived  there 
once,  my  child  of  song — an  illustrious  exile 
Where  is  he  now,  Temple  ?     Only  on  a  throne, 
my  swan.    There  are  exiles  and  exiles,  Temple 
Our  patriotic  and  banished  friend  Salaris  wil 
hardly,  I  think,  come  to  so  brilliant  a  place, 
The  throne  for  one  conspirator,  and  the  prison 
or  very  likely  the  block,  for  another.      Crowns 
for  the  crowns  that  have  brains  under  them 
blocks  for  the  blockheads.     He  is  a  gifted  and 
touching  blockhead,  that  friend  of  ours,  Mr. 
Temple.     I  like  him ;  but  I  was  always  a  child 
of  sentiment.     I  saw  you  in  Willis's  Rooms." 
'^Were  you  there?" 

"  I  was  there ;  oh  yes.  He  and  I,  you  know, 
are  old  friends.  I  saw  Goodboy  on*  the  plat- 
.  form,  and  he  saw  me.  I  think  he  winced  a  lit- 
tle, but  it  Avas  a  lost  fear.  I  have  given  up  my 
notion  of  doing  any  thing  with  him  in  the  way 
of  street-scenes." 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it.  I  do  hope  yon 
have  turned  decent  and  honorable  and  manly. 
Mr.  Lyndon,  there  are  many  reasons  why  I  wish 
you  well." 

"  Thanks ;  I  dare  say.     I  really  believe  you, 
Temple ;  and  I  think  you  are  a  good  sort  'of  a 
fellow  in  your  way.    Yes,  I  am  quite  a  reformed 
man.     In  fact,  Temple,  he  was  too  much  for 
me  in  that  Avay. " 
"WhatAvay?" 
"You  never  heard,  then?" 
"  I  have  not  heard  any  thing  about  you  for  a 
long  time." 


"True;  you  -vtfcre  away  in  Italian  myrtle- 
bowers,  and  that  sort  of  delightful  thing.  Well, 
I  opened  fire  regularly  on  Goodboy;  waylaid 
him  at  his  door;  pursued  him  to  the  House,  to 
the  Club,  to  the  Opera.  What  do  you  think  he 
did?  He  coolly  took  the  bull  by  the  horns. 
He  gave  me  in  charge  to  a  policeman  ;  he  fol- 
lowed up  the  charge  at  the  police-court ;  he  de- 
livered his  version  of  the  business  with  a  digni- 
fied mock  humility  which  quite  touched  and 
charmed  'the  worthy  magistrate.'  He  re- 
counted all  the  things  he  had  done  for  me, 
and  all  our  venerable  father  had  done;  and 
it  was  a  magnificent  scene,  quite.  And  do 
you  know,  Temple,  while  the  whole  thing  was 
a  hideous  lie  from  beginning  to  end,  there  was 
not  a  word  in  it  which  was  not  literallv  true? 
It  put  me  in  an  unpleasant  Kght ;  that  I  must 
frankly  confers.  Well,  there  was  nothing  for 


me  but  to  find  bail— which  of  course  I  couldn't 
do— or  be  sent  to  prison,  or  pledge  my  honor  to 
molest  him  no  more — in  that  way.  Temple,  I 
was  defeated.  I  had  fought  Respectability, 
and  was  overthrown!  At  least,  I  had  the 
sense  to  know  that  I  was  beaten,  and  I  sur- 
rendered and  promised." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it." 

"  Are  you  ?  So  I  dare  say  is  Goodboy.  But 
wait  for  the  end.  Do  you  ever  read  the  Greek 
dramatists,  Temple?  I  suppose  not.  Well, 
there  is  some  good  advice  given  by  one  of 
them  about  counting  no  man  successful  until 
you  have  seen  the  game  all  out.  You  just  wait. 
If  I  detested  Goodboy  before,  do  you  think  I 
like  him  any  better  now  ?  Do  you  know,  the 
cunning  old  boy  managed  so  well,  that  not -a 
line  of  the  business  got  into  the  papers ;  so  that 
I  had  not  even  the  satisfaction  of  bringing  open 
scandal  on  him.  I  wrote  letter  after  letter  to 
the  papers ;  need  I  say  that  no  editor  did  me ' 
the  favor  of  putting  the  tale  of  the  wrongs  I 
had  suffered  into  print  ?  Well,  there's  enough 
of  that.  I  have  had  rather  a  hard  life  of  it 
since.  Give  you  my  word,  I  don't  think  any 
thing  could  have  kept  me  up  but  my  deep  relig- 
ious feeling  and  my  determination  to  be  revenged 
upon  my  enemies.  I  thought  it  well  to  retire 
from  the  metropolis  for  a  little.  I  broke  loose 
from  my  base,  and  marched  right  into  the  heart 
of  the  country— Liverpool,  Manchester,  and  that 
sort  of  place.  Coarse,  cloddish,  without  soul, 
without  humor,  and,  let  me  tell  you,  by  no  means 
green  or  awkward  with  the  cards  and  the  bill- 
ards.  Ah,  mon  Dieu!  it  was  hard  and  dull. 
STo  matter,  I  live!  Providentially  preserved, 
[  still  live !  I  return  to  town  at  last,  led  doubt- 
ess  by  my  star.  I  find  two  of  my  old  acquaint- 
ances established  as  lions  of  the  season.  You 
are  one ;  my  Carbonaro  of  Willis's  Rooms  is 
:he  other.  Good  Heaven,  it  ought  to  teach  the 
•ainest  of  us  a  lesson  in  modesty,  when  such 
people  can  be  successful." 

We  were  now  walking  round  St.  James's 
Square.  We  might  have  been  mistaken  for 
wo  dear  and  intimate  friends.  Lyndon  was 
eanihg  affectionately  on  my  arm,  even  when 
le  was  propounding  lessons  of  humility  drawn 
Vom  the  incomprehensible  fact  that  such  a  per- 
onage  as  I  had  succeeded. 

I  thought  of  him  then  as  I  had  thought  of 
dm  always  since  our  first  meeting — as  a  hope- 
ess  old  reprobate,  whose  inner  nature  no  power 
n  earth  could  touch,  and  whose  utterly  selfish 
nd  heartless  levity  could  only  be  explained  or 
xcused  by  the  theory  that  something  not  un- 
'ke  insanity  was  mingled  with  his  blood.  Yet 
now  walked  with  him,  listened  to  him,  allowed 
im  to  lean  on  me,  felt  even  a  positive  interest 
n  his  welfare. 

Why  ?  Was  it  for  the  sake  of  Ned  Lambert 
nd  his  love,  and  my  sincere  friendship  for  them 
oth? 

In  sad  sober  truth,  it  was  not. 
It  was  because  the  thoughtful  violet  eyes  of 
Lilla  Lyndon  the  younger  had  looked  into  mine 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


105 


with  kindly  interest  while  she  spoke  of  this  man. 
The  thought  of  her  transfigured  him  in  my  mind. 
Nay,  this  miserable  wretch  was  a  sort  of  link  be- 
tween us.  His  very  misery  might  be  the  cause 
of  our  meeting  again. 

And  at  this  time  I  had  no  more  thought  of 
loving  Lilla  Lyndon  than  I  had  of  falling  in 
love  with  a  saint  or  a  star.  I  still  believed 
that  my  life  was  to  be  forever  shadowed  and 
frustrated  by  hopeless  unfading  passion  for 
Christina  Reichstein. 

I  listened,  then,  to  Lyndon's  talk,  and  even 
encouraged  him,  and  assured  him  I  would  save 
him  if  I  could. 

"Now  that,"  he  said,  "is  the  very  thing  I 
am  coming  at.  I  really  do  think,  Temple,  that 
you  are  a  sincere  sort  of  person ;  and  that  you 
mean  what  you  say.  My  daughter  has  disap- 
peared somewhere ;  I  can  not  find  out  where  ; 
Id  I  don't  suppose,  you  know,  that  it  much 
iitters,  because  I  dare  say  the  girl  is  hard  up, 
and  drudging  and  toiling,  and  that  sort  of  thing, 
and  of  course  she  couldn't  do  any  thing  for  me. 
I  should  think  Goodboy  turned  her  adrift ;  he's 
quite  mean  enough  for  it.  Well,  you  see,  it's 
no  use  my  looking  her  up.  Do  you  know,  I  am 
so  sensitive,  and  epicurean,  and  chivalrous  in 
all  my  ways,  that  I  can't  bear  to  see  women  who 
are  drudging  and  poor  and  overworked.  It  isn't 
the  poetic  idea  of  womanhood,  is  it?  Women 
don't  look  as  if  they  ought  to  be  seen  then. 
They  get  pale  and  washed-out-looking,  and  the 
plump  outlines  go,  and  their  hands  look  dirty 
and^needle-marked,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  No ; 
I  really  prefer,  as  a  father,  not  to  see  my  daugh- 
ter just  now.  You  follow  me,  Temple  ?" 

"I  do,"  was  my  grim  reply.  Even  the  color 
of  those  violet  eyes  was  fading  from  my  mind 
as  he  talked  in  this  way. 

"  You  appreciate  what  I  mean  ?" 

"  Quite,"  I  replied,  more  grimly. 

"Now,  on  the  other  hand,  look  at  my  niece. 
Aha,  have  I  touched  you  ?"  I  suppose  I  start- 
ed. "There  is  a  lovely  girl,  charming  to  look 
at ;  a  little  pale,  you  will  say ;  but  so  very  in- 
teresting, and  with  such  an  expression  of  good- 
ness. Now,  Temple,  don't  you  think  she  could 
be  brought  to  do  something  for  me?  Don't 
you  think,  at  least,  she  ought  to  be  allowed  to 
know  of  my  existence  ?  I  know  it's  kept  a  se- 
cret from  her.  I  know  she  is  ignorant  of  the 
tender  tie  that  binds  her  to  me.  Now,  Tem- 
ple, my  boy,  here  is  your  opportunity !  You 
know  her;  you  are  in  your  own  way  a  kind  of 
success,  and  I  dare  say  would  pass  off  easily 
upon  her — she's  evidently  very  green  and  inno- 
cent— as  quite  a  distinguished  and  delightful 
sort  of  person.  I  saw  you  handing  her  to  the 
carriage  to-day;  you  did  the  thing  quite  in  good 
style  ;  I  dare  say  she  wouldn't  notice  any  differ- 
ence. Now,  your  motive  can  not  be  suspected. 
Mine,  I  confess,  is  open  to  misinterpretation ! 
Temple,  do  a  benevolent  deed.  Here  is  an 
outcast  uncle  panting  for  love  and  redemption, 
and  very,  very  hard  up.  There  is  a  lovely 
niece,  with  her  little  bosom  overflowing  with 


family  affection  and  benevolence  and  romantic 
nonsense  of  all  kinds,  and  with  unlimited  in- 
fluence over  papa's  purse.  Temple,  need  I  say 
more  ?  You  have  a  heart,  and  quite  a  present- 
able appearance.  Bring  us  together,  and  look 
for  your  reward  Above. " 

I  managed  to  escape  at  last,  without  making 
a  promise  of  any  kind;  but  he  squeezed  my 
hand  warmly,  accepted  a  trifling  loan,  and 
went  away  humming  a  hopeful  tune. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

RIVALRY. 

OUR  season  was  drawing  fast  to  a  close — 
the  first  season  during  which  Christina  and  I 
had  sung  together — the  season  of  fruition !  I 
had  some  Continental  engagements  during  the 
winter ;  she  intended  to  take  absolute  rest,  for 
she  had  been  apparently  in  uncertain  and  even 
delicate  health  for  some  time'  back,  and  her 
voice  had  occasionally  failed  her.  Just  at  the 
close  of  the  season  she  brought  on  herself,  by 
want  of  caution,  rather  a  severe  attack  of  chest 
or  throat  complaint,  as  shall  be  presently  told. 

Her  husband  had  left  London,  disappointed 
but  not  dispirited.  He  was  in  Paris,  striving  to 
teach  diplomatists  and  statesmen  there  the  ne- 
cessity of  doing  just  what  was  afterward  done  ; 
that  is  to  say,  boldly  and  in  the  field  taking  up 
the  cause  of  Italy  against  Austria.  As  yet  his 
efforts  did  not  promise  much  success,  and  of 
England  he  had  no  longer  any  hope. 

On  the  very  day  after  the  Willis's -Rooms 
lecture  at  which  I  was  present,  Christina  was 
attacked  by  a  sort  of  nervous  weakness  and 
cold,  and  her  place  was  vacant  for  a  week. 
Mile.  Finola  made  her  hay  while  the  sun  shone, 
and  came  out  prominently.  Crowded  houses 
and  animated  audiences  greeted  her,  and  she 
began  to  walk  the  stage  Avith  an  air  of  conquer- 
ing rivalry  in  the  very  rustle  of  her  petticoats. 
Critiques  were  written,  proclaiming  her  the  mis- 
tress of  a  new  style,  the  leader  of  a  new  lyrical 
school.  She  took  all  the  praises  with  a  quiet 
nonchalance,  as  if  they  were  nothing  but  the 
homage  properly  due  to  genius.  To  crown  the 
whole,  she  undertook  some  of  Christina's  own 
favorite  parts,  and  produced  a  curious  half-pa- 
thetic, half-comic  melange,  which  it  was  not  pos- 
sible to  think  uninteresting,  kept  people's  eyes 
and  ears  quite  open,  puzzled  many  intelligent 
and  appreciative  listeners,  and  was  hailed  with 
positive  enthusiasm  by  the  general  public. 

I  had  to  sing  with  Mile.  Finola  in  most  of 
her  parts ;  and  at  first  I  put  on  a  kind  of  high- 
art  indifference  toward  the  whole  affair.  In- 
deed, I  did  not  care  to  sing  with  any  woman 
but  Christina,  and  I  looked  upon  little  Finola 
as  a  mere  musical  stop-gap.  But  her  triumph 
fairly  startled  me ;  and  the  evident  dissatisfac- 
tion of  some  of  the  audience  at  my  own  careless 
p'erformance,  together  with  s*ome  sharp  repri- 
mands from  the  fair  singer  herself,  piqued  and 


106 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


roused  me  at  last  into  animation.  I  determ- 
ined to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  and 
play  my  part  in  the  admirable  fooling.  I  sang 
and  acted  my  very  best,  reproached  my  white- 
robed  Amina  (whose  stage  night-dress  was  a 
master-piece  of  elaborate  millinery  such  as  no 
princess  ever  went  to  bed  in)  with  all  the  tones 
of  despair  and  jealous  madness ;  clasped  my 
plump  and  tightly-laced  Leonora,  and  sighed 
out  to  the  uttermost  my  passionate  farewell, 
was  graciously  permitted  by  my  conquering  her- 
oine to  share  the  honors  of  her  triumph ;  I  led 
her  forth  ;  I  seized  as  many  of  her  bouquets  as 
two  hands  could  grasp ;  I  held  back  the  curtain 
that  she  might  squeeze  her  ample  skirts  through 
— she  wore  crinoline  even  when  Ami'na  in  the 
bedroom — I  attended  her  to  her  brougham,  and 
was  admitted  to  a  gracious  degree  of  her  pat- 
ronage and  favor. 

"I  don't  think  the  world  misses  Madame 
Reichstein  so  much,"  she  remarked  to  me  one 
evening. 

"I  don't  think  it  does,"  I  added,  with  a  bit- 
ter conviction  that  it  was  only  too  true. 

"You  see,"  she  went  on,  complacently,  and 
with  a  quite  judicial  calmness  and  self-satisfac- 
tion, "it  wearies  soon,  that  grand  lyricism  of 
the  old  school.  The  world  will  have  vivacity 
and  esprit.  One  must  suit  the  public ;  but  one 
must  have  tact  to  do  it.  For  me,  I  never  ad- 
mired Madame  Eeichstein ;  and  I  know  she  al- 
ways detested  me." 

"Indeed  you  do  her  wrong;  I  have  always 
heard  her  speak  very  well  of  you." 

"  Possible ;  but  that  was  before  she  thought 
I  could  be  a  rival.     One  does  not  like  a  rival,  es- 
pecially when  one  is  not  very  young.      She  will 
soon  be  quite  passe'e,  I  think.     How  old  is  she  ?" 
"  I  really  don't  know,"  I  replied,  rather  coldly. 
"Truly?      I  thought  you  knew  her  whole 
history.     She  can  not  be  much  less  than  forty." 
"Oh  yes,   certainly,  very  much   less    than 
forty;  not  more  than  thirty,  perhaps." 

"  Then  you  do  know  something  of  her  ?  I 
always  heard  that  you  did.  Yes,  I  heard  that 
you  were  in  love  with  her  ever  so  long  ago — be- 
fore I  was  born,  perhaps— and  that  she  married 
somebody  else,  who  was  killed,  or  died,  or  ran 
away ;  and  lately  I  heard  that  you  had  arranged 
your  old  quarrel,  and  were  going  to  marry  her; 
but  I  did  not  believe  that." 

This  was  all  hideously  annoying;  and  no- 
thing but  the  sense  I  had  of  the  absurdity  which 


would  attach  to  a  dispute  with  such  a  girl,  who, 
after  all,  talked  no  worse  than  most  women  will 
do  of  rivals,  prevented  me  from  giving  some 
sort  of  distinct  expression  to  my  feelings. 

Mile.  Finola  read  my  face  and  laughed. 

"Allans!"  she  said,  "you  are  angry  with 
me  because  I  mock  myself  of  your  old  love. 
I  believe  she  is  more  jealous  of  me  now  than 
ever." 

"Come  now,  Mademoiselle,  don't  be  foolish. 
You  are  not  ill-natured,  I  know,  and  you  ought 
not  to  talk  spiteful  nonsense  of  that  sort." 

"Perhaps.     But  when  a  woman  has  carried 


a  high  head  over  one  for  a  long  time,  it  is  a 
grand  provocation  to  be  spiteful.  Without 
doubt,  she  has  said  as  much  or  more  of  me 
since  these  last  few  days ;  but  I  will  say  not 
one  word  more  if  you  are  hurt;  and  don't 
quarrel  with  me,  for  I  meant  no  harm ;  and  if 
I  had  known  it  would  touch  you,  I  never  would 
have  said  a  word  against  her— du  mains  in  vour 
presence." 

That  night  we  were  singing  together  in  the 
Trovatore,  which  used  to  be  such  a  favorite 
then ;  and  the  audience  were  even  more  than 
usually  delighted  with  the  astonishing  little 
Leonora.  After  one  of  her  thrilling  passages 
(which  reminded  me  of  a  canary-bird  in  love), 
the  beautiful  Leonora  passing  me  quickly,  said', 
with  a  beam  of  self-satisfaction  twinkling*  in  her 
bright  eyes,  "She  is  in  the  house." 

I  had  no  need  to  ask  whom  she  meant.     I 
saw  Christina  in  a  box.      She  was  very  pal 
and  looked  worse  than  I  should  have  expecte 

I  called  to  see  her  next  day,  and  ventured  to 
reproach  her  for  coming  out  at  night  so  soon ; 
but  she  made  no  answer  on  that  subject. 

"You  sang  very  well  last  night,"  she  said; 
with  more  soul  than  you  generally  throw  into 
your  parts." 

Did  I  really  ?  I  was  afraid  I  was  getting 
through  in  a  blank  and  careless  kind  of  way. 
What  Sid  you  think  of  Leonora  ?" 

I  asked  the  question  with  some  doubt,  un- 
willing to  ask  it,  but  not  seeing  how  to  avoid 
t.  I  expected  some  sarcastic  or  contemptuous 
answer,  'or  some  transparent  affectation  of  ad- 
miration. 

"I  was  both  surprised  and  pleased  with  her," 
Christina  answered,  with  perfect  composure  and 
apparent  earnestness.  "There  is  something 
quite  new  and  fresh  about  her  style,  which 
makes  her  very  interesting.  I  never  thought 
she  had  so  much  originality.  She  quite  in- 
spired ?/o?/.." 

"  Did  she  ?  I  am  glad  to  be  inspired  by  any 
body,  or  in  any  way." 

"You  don't  sing  so  well  with  me.  Why?" 
"Perhaps  because  I  strive  to  do  my  best  too 
anxiously.  Besides,  your  genius  rebukes  me, 
Christina ;  that  is  the  truth.  You  are  too  true 
an  artist  for  me ;  I  don't  care  about  little  Fi- 
nola. " 

"People  say  you  do,  in  another  sense." 

"Do  you  believe  them?" 

"No,  Emanuel,  not  I. — What  do  vou  think 


of  Mr.  Lyndon's  daughter  ?" 

She  looked  at  me  fixedly  while  she  put  this 
utterly  inappropriate  question. 

"  She  is  a  beautiful  girl,  and  I  should  think 
she  must  have  a  beautiful  nature.  How  came 
such  a  father  to  have  such  a  daughter?" 

"  You  dislike  Mr.  Lyndon,  and  can  not  judge 
of  him.  Now  I  don't  dislike  Lilla." 

"  No  ;  why  should  you  ?" 

"  Some  women  one  could  dislike,  others  one 
could  not.  I  could  not  dislike  your  little  friend 
Finola ;  I  should  as  soon  think  of  disliking  a 
clever  linnet.  No  matter ;  let  us  pass  all  that. 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


•  107 


You  must  sing  your  very  best  with  me  on  Mon- 
day." 

"Nex,t  Monday?  You  surely  don't  mean  to 
sing  next  Monday?" 

"Indeed  I  do." 

"Is  that  not  rashness?" 

"  Very  likely.     I  mean  to  do  it,  though." 

"Pray,  Christina,  don't  attempt  it.  Do  let 
me  advise  you — " 

"  My  dear  friend,  I  never  take  advice.  My 
voice  is  quite1  restored,  and  I  mean  to  sing  on 
Monday.  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  allow 
the  season  to  close  with  your  little  friend  in  full 
possession  ?" 

"You  don't  fear  rivalry.  Your  place  is  al- 
ways yours  to  resume  when  you  will." 

"  Still,  you  don't  know  what  woman's  vanity 
is,  if  you  think  I  could  be  content  to  endure  a 
six  months'  exile  from  London  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  I  had  left  your  fascinating  friend  in 
possession  of  tne  field.  No  ;  I  must  win  a  bat- 
tle before  I  go.  Besides,  I  want  to  sing  with 
you  again;  I  want  to  be  certain  whether  you 
can  not  sing  as  well  with  me  as  with  her." 

While  we  were  speaking  there  was  heard  a 
trampling  of  horses  in  the  street  below ;  and 
in  a  moment  a  card  was  brought  to  Christina. 
When  she  looked  at  it  she  glanced  at  me  sud- 
denly, and  with  a  sort  of  flush  in  her  face,  as 
if  I  were  somehow  concerned  in  the  matter. 

"No,  I  can't  see  her,"  she  said  to  her  Ger- 
man companion.  "  Yet,  stay ;  it's  very  kind  of 
her.  Yes  ;  show  her  into  the  other  room,  Meta. " 

I  rose  to  go. 

"One  moment,  Emanuel;  oblige  me  by  re- 
maining one  moment.  I  wish  it  particularly." 

I  remained ;  standing  up,  however. 

Presently  I  heard  the  rustle  of  skirts  up  the 
stairs  and  in  the  next  room. 

"Now,  Emanuel,"  said  Christina,  with  an 
odd  and  embarrassed  kind  of  half-smile,  "you 
are  free  to  go.  No ;  you  need  not  advise  or 
remonstrate ;  it  would  be  useless.  I  mean  to 
resume  my  place  on  Monday,  and  dethrone 
your  little  friend,  or  perish  in  the  attempt." 

She  laughed  a  somewhat  forced  and  flicker- 
ing laugh,  and  I  left. 

Who  was  her  mysterious  visitor,  whom  I  was 
not  to  pass  on  the  stairs  even  ;  for  that  was 
clearly  the  reason  why  Christina  had  detained 
me?  Well,  there  could  not  be  much  mystery 
on  the  part  of  the  visitor.  As  I  came  into 
Jermyn  Street  I  saw  a  mounted  groom  leading 
a  lady's  horse  up  and  down  before  the  door. 
I  knew  the  man's  face  perfectly  well ;  he  was 
one  of  Mr.  Lyndon's  servants.  The  visitor  was 
evidently  Lilla  Lyndon. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A   DEFEAT. 

CHRISTINA  carried  out  her  resolve,  and  sang 
the  following  Monday  night  in  one  of  the  parts 
to  which  Mademoiselle  Finola  had  given  a  new 
reading.  When  she  came  on  the  stage  she 


ooked  weak,  I  thought,  and  nervous.  I  could 
not  see  her  without  deep  and  genuine  emotion. 
[  could  not  but  think  of  our  early  acquaintance 
and  our  early  love ;  of  the  promises  we  had 
made  to  each  other  of  a  happiness  never  given 
us  to  enjoy ;  of  the  bright  assurance  of  success 
which  always  sustained  her,  and  of  the  success 
she  had  won,  and  the  slender  joy  it  seemed  to 
have  brought  her.  I  felt  the  keenest  sense  of 
delight  when  I  heard  the  enthusiastic  welcome 
she  received  from  the  house,  and  saw  her  eyes 
sparkle  with  triumph  ;  and  yet  I  could  not  help 
pitying  her,  because  she  loved  so  much  a  tri- 
umph like  that. 

She  sang  exquisitely  in  the  first  act — not,  in- 
deed, with  all  her. wonted  strength,  as  my  quick 
and  watchful  ear  soon  discovered,  but  with  all 
the  soul  of  feeling  and  the  perfection  of  articu- 
lation which  belonged  specially  to  her.  Her 
rival's  performance  must  have  seemed,  in  the 
mind  of  any  cultivated  listener,  a  poor  and 
tricky  piece  of  artificiality  when  compared  with 
her  pure,  noble,  lyrical  style.  I  saw  her  in  the 
interval  after  the  first  act,  and  she  was  full  of 
triumph.  * 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  I  have  not  been  so  rash, 
after  all ;  I  have  not  failed,  you  see.  I  know 
you  are  glad  of  it,  even  though  people  do  rank 
you  on  the  side  of  your  pretty  Mademoiselle 
Finola." 

"Nobody  can  sing  as  3^011  can  ;  and  for  the 
rest,  you  are  only  laughing  at  me." 

"Perhaps  so."  Indeed,  I  feel  in  exuberant 
spirits  to  -  night ;  partly,  of  course,  because  I 
have  got  back  my  voice,  and  am  about  to  re- 
cover my  place,  but  still  more  because  I  have 
had  good  news." 

"Indeed!  when?"  I  knew  by  her  expres- 
sion that  she  was  alluding  to  her  husband. 

"  To-day.  Every  thing  is  going  well.  He 
hopes  to  be  able  presently  to  take  a  little  rest 
at  Vichy;  and  I  am  going  there." 

"  But  what  is  going  well  ?  for  I  know  no- 
thing." 

"Ach!  nor  I  much  more.  But  he  has  some 
enterprise  in  preparation,  and  it  is  going  well, 
and  he  is  hopeful.  X^ne  may  rely  upon  him, 
for  he  is  not  sanguine  or  extravagant ;  he  is 
not  a  dreamer,  though  many  people  think  him 
so.  It  was  quite  miserable  to  me  to  have  to 
lie  on  a  sofa  all  day  long  up  there  in  Jermyn 
Street,  with  nothing  to  do  but  torture  my  brains 
and  my  heart  thinking  something  had  befallen 
him.  But  things  look  brighter  now.  I  am 
very  well  now — don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"I  would  rather  not  see  you  here  to-night. 
I  doubt  whether  you  are  strong  enough  even 
yet." 

"Strong  enough!  Quite.  I  could  not  be 
better.  You  don't  think  my  voice  was  weak  ?" 

"  No ;  but  even  now  you  seem  nervous,  and 
look  pale." 

"Only  because  I  am  full  of  hope  and  tri- 
umph." 

Our  conversation  was  cut  short  just  then,  and 
I  was  a  primo  uorno  once  more. 


108 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


I  was  glad  when  the  opera  was  finished.     It 
was  a  weary  and  a  painful  business  to  me,  and 
to  more  than  me.    Christina's  triumph  was  not 
long-lived.     A  vague  sense  of  languor  and  of 
weakness  began  to  diffuse  itself  through  the 
house  during  the  second  act.     It  became  very 
plain  that  Christina  had  tried  her  strength  too 
soon,  and  was  not  equal  to  the  task  she  had  so 
rashly  set  herself.     It  was  not  that  she  decid- 
edly failed,  but  that  she  did  not  keep  up  her 
success.     The  music  of  the  part   became  an 
effort  to  her.     She  grew  more  and  more  dis- 
pirited.    In  my  anxiety  that  her  wish  for  a  tri- 
umph should  be  gratified,  I  would  have  wel- 
comed even  some  sudden   expression  of  dis- 
satisfaction from  the  house,  because  that  would 
probably  have  fired  her  into  energy.    Of  course 
nothing  of  the  kind  was   heard."    The  house 
was  thoroughly  sympathetic  and  respectful.     I 
knew  how  bitter  to  her  would  be  even  that 
sympathetic  respectfulness ;  for  it  was  the  soft- 
ened shadow  of  failure  where  she  had  expect- 
ed to  be  illumined  by  the  full  blaze  of  success. 
"  She's  not  herself  at  all  to-night,"  said  some- 
body to  me  during  a  momentary  meetiftg.    "  She 
ought  not  to  have  sung." 

"  She  ought  not,  indeed,"  I  said,  very  blank 

I  thought  she  was  going  to  make  a  splen- 
did thing  of  it  at  first ;  but  it  is  quite  plain  that 
she  is  not  equal  to  it.  I  am  very  sorry  she 
made  the  attempt,  for  it  will  be  a  sort  of  tri- 
umph to  little  Finola  and  her  clique.  Have 
you  seen  her  to-night  ?  There  she  is,  yonder 
in  that  box,  seemingly  enjoying  the  whole  af- 
fair— the  little  musical  humbug." 

I  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  vigorous 
truth  fulness  with  which  he  analyzed  the  char 
acter  of  Mademoiselle. 

"People  have  been  telling  me,"  he  went  on, 
"  that  you  were  going  over  to  her  party.  No 
truth  in  that,  I  should  think  ?" 

"Not  one  solitary  word  of  truth  in  it." 
"No;  I  hardly  thought  you  could  mistake 
that  musical-snuff-box  sort  of  thing  for  sing- 
ing, and  those  winks  and  shrugs  for  acting.     I 
am  very  sorry  for  Reich^ein,  but  it's  only  just 
a   moment's  disappointment.      Let   her  keep 
quiet  and  recover  her  strength,  and  she'll  ex 
tinguish  little  robin  redbreast  yonder." 
_  The  extinguishing,  however,   was  not  des- 
tined to  take   place  that   night.      Christina' 
voice  failed  more  and  more.      The  perform- 
ance dragged  through  lifelessly  and  sadly.    She 
could  not  sing. 

When  all  was  over,  I  found  her  far  more  calm 
and  self-controlled  than  I  had  expected. 

"I  have  made  a  complete  failure  of  it,"  she 
said. 

"  It  was  too  soon  for  you  to  attempt  singing ; 
that  was  all.  There  was  no  question  of  fail- 
ure." 

"I  ought  to  have  taken  your  advice  from  the 
first ;  but  I  was  so  confident  of  success.  I  sup- 
pose every  one  perceived  that  I  was  not  able  to 
get  through  with  it  ?" 


Every  one  knew,  of  course,  that  you  had 
not  been  well,  and  no  one  expected  to  find  that 
you  had  fully  recovered  your  voice  so  soon." 

I   saw  your  friend  Mademoiselle  Finola 

doubt  she  thinks  the  victory  is  hers  now— 
and  indeed  it  is.     Is  it  not,  Emanuel  ?" 

You  have  only  been  defeated  by  yourself 
because  you  would  not  do  yourself  justice." 

"I  ought  to  have  taken  your  advice  in  the 
matter,  for  it  must  have  been  disinterested.  If 
what  people  say  be  true,  you  ought  to  be' glad 
that  I  persisted  in  singing,  and  failed  accord- 
ingly. ' 

I  bit  my  lips,  and  felt  hurt  and  vexed  by  al- 
lusions of  which  I  could  not  affect  to  misunder- 
stand the  meaning.      This  was  no  time,  how- 
ever, to  take  offense  at  any  word  of  Christina's. 
"You  .have  not  seen  her  since?"  she  pro- 
ceeded, with  determined  ana  vexing  purpose. 
Why  don't  you  go  to  her  and  congratulate  her 
on  her  triumph  ?" 

^  "  I  had  better,"  I  could  not  help  answering, 
go  to  her  or  to  any  one  who  will  be  less  un- 
generous and  will  understand  me  better  than 
you  do,  Christina." 

"  But  don't  go,  please,  just  yet.  I  do  wrong 
to  speak  in  that  way,  Emanuel,  for  I  don't  be- 
lieve one  word  they  say  about  your  being  leagued 
against  me  with  her— I  could  not  believe  it.  But 
I  can  not  help  being  vexed  and  spiteful  after 
such  a  failure,  and  under  her  very  eyes.  '  Are 
you  not  sorry  to  see  me  so  weak  and  vain  ?" 

"I  am,  Christina;  I  do  think  such  ways  un- 
worthy of  you.  What  rivalry  can  there  be  be- 
tween you  and  that  little  creature?  Let  her 
enjoy  her  triumph,  if  she  thinks  it  one.  You 
know  what  it  means,  and  what  it  is  worth,  and 
how  long  it  is  likely  to  last.  It's  a  shame, 
Christina;  you  have  other  things  to  think  of 
besides  her  and  her  clique  and  their  trumpery 
gossip." 

"I  have,  indeed;  and  I  deserve  to  be  re- 
minded of  it.  You  \vere  always  like  an  honest 
doctor,  Emanuel— a  doctor  who  does  not  mind 
giving  his  patient  a  little  extra  pain  if  he  can 
do  any  good  by  it.  But  you  must  forgive  a  lit- 
tle vexation  to  one  who  comes  out  for  a  great 
victory  and  goes  home  defeated.  You  will  come 
and  sup  with  us  ?  We  were  to  have  had  a  cel- 
ebration of  my  triumph ;  now  it  shall  be  a  feast 
of  condolence.  Come ;  and  I  promise  not  to 
say  another  word  about  Finola." 

"  Say  any  thing  you  like  about  her,  meinet- 
ivegen ;  but  don't  sink  yourself  even  for  a  mo- 
ment to  her  level." 

"  Well,  will  you  come  ?  I  thought  of  dismiss- 
ing my  guests ;  but  I  will  not  do  so  if  you  will 
come." 

Let  me  refuse.  Do  not  have  guests.  You 
are  not  fit  for  midnight,  and  talk,  and  excite- 
ment. Send  them  away." 

"Ah,  but  I  am  sadly  in  want  of  a  flash  of 
excitement  now.  Do  come,  Emanuel;  there 
are  only  to  be  a  few.  Mr.  Lyndon — " 

"No,  Christina;  forgive  me,  if  I  say  point- 
blank,  I  don't  want  to  meet  that  man,  and  least 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


109 


of  all  in  your  company.  I  dislike  him,  and  I 
wish  I  could  get  you  to  do  the  same." 

"  Thanks.  Our  feelings  are  not  likely  to  run 
quite  in  the  same  channel  as  regards  the  Lyn- 
don family,  I  fancy.  Meanwhile  Mr.  Lyrtdon 
is  my  friend  and  my  husband's.  Then  you  will 
not  come  ?  Good-night. " 

"You  are  offended  with  me?" 

"A  little,  and  justly;  but  I  quite  forgive 
you  ;  only  let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  And  so 
good-night." 

This  conversation  took  place  before  we  were 
out  of  the  opera-house.  I  left  her,  and  went 
my  way  alone. 

Walking  homeward  an  hour  after  I  passed 
through  Jermyn  Street.  Coming  near  Chris- 
tina's lodgings,  I  could  not  help  thinking  over 
the  strange  mixture  of  levity  and  feeling,  of 
egotism  and  generosity,  of  ambition  and  frivol- 
ity, which  was  in  that  singular  nature ;  ambi- 
tion so  great  and  jealousies  so  small ;  success 
discolored  by  such  petty  bitternesses ;  great 
hopes  made  mean  by  such  little  pleasures  and 
excitements.  I  wished  she  had  sought  solitude, 
not  society,  that  night.  I  could  not  bear  to 
think  of  her  making  one  at  a  small  revelry,  and 
accepting,  and  perhaps  enjoying,  the  attentions 
of  Mr.  Lyndon.  Not  my  Lisette ! 

I  might  have  spared  myself  some  of  these  re- 
flections. When  I  came  in  sight  of  her  win- 
dows there  were  no  signs  of  revelry  of  any  sort ; 
all  was  quiet-and  dark.  She  had  evidently  got 
rid  of  her  guests  and  gone  home  to  solitude. 

"I  don't  understand  this  woman  yet,"  I 
thought.  "For  good  or  ill,  I  don't  understand 
her.  I  wonder  if  I  ever  shall.  Are  any  wo- 
men ever  to  be  understood  at  all  ?" 

Christina  sang  no  more  that  season,  of  which, 
indeed,  but  few  nights  remained.  She  had  at- 
tempted too  much  and  too  soon,  and  had  to 
bear  the  penalty— bitter  to  her— of  enforced 
rest. 

I  did  not  see  her  any  more  that  year.  I  called 
many  times,  but  she  could  not  or  would  not  see 
me.  After  a  few  weeks  she  went  to  Vichy,  and 
thence  to  Nice.  I  had  several  provincial  and 
some  German  engagements,  and  our  paths  di- 
vided altogether  for  many  months. 

So  closed  our  first  season — for  her  in  disap- 
pointment; for  me  in  disappointment  of  more 
than  one  kind.  One  thing  was  clear :  Christina 
and  I  were  far  more  widely  separated  now  than 
when  she  was  struggling  in  Italy  and  I  strug- 
gling in  London,  and  neither  knew  of  the  oth- 
er's whereabouts. 

Let  me  dispose,  once  for  all,  of  Mademoiselle 
Einola,  who  is  of  no  further  importance  in  this 
story,  and  need  not  appear  in  it  any  more.  She 
had  troops  of  admirers  and  many  adorers  ;  and 
among  the  latter  she  soon  found  an  eligible  hus- 
band. He  was  a  man  of  large  property  and  with 
a  foreign  title.  She  renounced  the  stage  right 
sly,  and  betook  herself  to  an  existence  of 

11s  and  receptions,  in  which  her  soul  found 
higher  delight  and  more  fitting  sphere  than  it 
could  have  discovered  in  any  triumph  of  music- 


al art.  Her  name  has  been  forgotten  among 
singers  long  ago ;  and  sh»  is  not  sorry.  She 
carried  off  at  the  very  outset  the  only  prize  she 
cared  about ;  and  she  looked  back  ever  after  on 
her  artistic  career  as  one  remembers  the  weary 
progress  of  a  journey  which  has  led  him  to  the 
warmth  and  light  of  a  happy  home.  She  lived 
principally  in  London,  not  much  caring  to  go 
back  to  Paris  while  the  shoe-shop  still  stood  in 
the  Palais  Royal  arcade.  I  met  her  several 
times  after  her  marriage,  and  she  was  very 
friendly  and  gracious  for  a  while,  until  chance 
and  change  gradually  brought  us  less  and  less 
within  each  other's  sight,  and  at  last  extin- 
guished even  recognition. 

The  first  season,  then,  in  which  Christina 
and  I  sang  together  had  come  and  gone ;  and 
this  was  what  it  brought.  I  knew  no  end  of 
people  now,  and  I  doubt  if  London  held  a  loge- 
lier  man.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  running  to  seed  ; 
and  I  longed  for  a  new  life — a  new  start  in  life. 
It  came ;  but  not  in  the  way  I  had  planned  or 
expected.  The  unforeseen,  as  usual,  came  to 
pass. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 
CHRISTINA'S  INTERVENTION. 

ANOTHER  season  opens,  finding  every  thing 
with  me  much  the  same,  to  all  outward  ap- 
pearance, as  the  season  before.  I  have  not  yet 
carried  out  my  idea  of  going  to  America  ;  and 
just  at  the  present  moment  the  idea  is  rathe'r 
in  the  back-ground.  I  have  been  in  London 
since  before  Christmas,  and  the  spring  is  jnow 
well  advanced.  1  am  still  lodging  under  the 
same  roof  with  Ned  Lambert,  though  we  some- 
times don't  meet  for  weeks  together.  I  hear 
rather  promising  accounts  of  the  poor  Lyndons 
in  Paris.  I  have  not  seen  Christina,  or  heard 
from  her  all  the  winter;  but  I  know  that  she  has 
been  to  Nice,  and  that  Mr.  Lyndon,  M.P.,  has 
been  there,  without  his  daughters ;  and  I  know 
what  the  English  colony  there  said  and  thought, 
and,  while  I  believe  it  to  be  false  as  hell,  I  am 
maddened  by  such  whispers.  I  know  the  com- 
mon talk  here  is  that  Christina  is  to  marry  Lyn- 
don; and  I  wish  her  husband  would  abandon 
his  conspiracies,  and'  own  his  wife,  and  live 
with  her  in  the  face  of  day.  I  have  heard 
something  from  him  too ;  and  news  of  him. 
There  has  been  an  abortive  insurrection  in 
Lombardv,  and  a  few  poor  fellows  have  been 
bayoneted  and  shot,  and  some  people  blame 
Salaris  for  it,  and  say  that  he  was  there ;  and 
others  condemn  Mazzini,  and  say  that  he  was 
not  there. 

Christina's  engagement  here,  beginning  rath- 
er late  this  year,  is  near  at  hand,  and  she  must 
soon  be  in  town.  I  have  heard  that  her  voice 
is  quite  restored,  but  that  her  general  health 
is  still  weak. 

One  morning  I  receive  a  letter  addressed  to 
me  in  her  handwriting.  I  see  it  with  some- 
thing like  a  start.  The  time  has  been  my 


110 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


whole  senses  would  have  stirred  at  the  sigh 
of  that  writing ;  anil  even  still  I  can  not  loo! 
at  it  unmoved.  I  believe  there  are  some  earl 
feelings  one  never  gets  ove^r— never.  I  shai 
never  conquer  my  detestation  of  the  smell  o 
certain  medicines.  The  faintest  breath  of  then 
horrifies  me,  as  if  I  were  again  a  child  about  t< 
have  a  dose  forced  down  my  throat.  I  shal 
never  lose  a  sense  of  delight  called  up  by  the 
smell  of  tar ;  because  it  brings  back  all  the  old 
memories  of  the  sea  and  the  strand  and  th 
boats.  I  shall  never  see  a  scrap  of  Christina 
Braun's  handwriting  without  emotion.  There 
are  no  particular  mysteries  to  be  treasured  up  to 
the  end  of  this  story,  and  I  may  say  at  once  tha 
I  love  another  woman  now  better  then  I  evei 
loved  the  idol  of  my  boyhood.  But  I  can  look 
at  her  writing  in  a  letter  without  any  thing  of 
thrill,  while  a  line  of  Christina  Braun's  hand 
would  even  still  produce  at  the  first  glance  a 
sort  of  electric  shock. 

Christina's  letter  was  short. 

"JERMYN  STREET. 

"My  DEAR  EMANUEL, — Greeting!  I  have 
returned  to  town,  as  you  will  see,  and  I  want  to 
sjieak  to  you  frankly,  earnestly,  as  a  friend.  Do 
you  believe  me  a  true  friend,  above  meanness, 
and  wishing  you  well  ?  If  so,  forget  any  little 
coldness  or  ill-humor  I  may  have  shown  last 
year,  when  I  was  troubled  so  much  mentally 
and  physically,  and  come  to  me  at  once ;  if 
you  do  not  thus  believe  in  me,  then  tear  up  this 
letter,  and  don't  come.  CHRISTINA." 

I  went  to  Jermyn  Street  immediately.  Chris- 
tina's German  companion  received  me  at  first; 
and  in  a  few  minutes  Christina  herself  entered. 
She  was  looking  rather  pale,  but  very  handsome, 
and  bright-eyed,  and  splendid. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  she  said;  "it 
is  friendly  of  you.  I  wished  to  speak  to  you  a 
little."  And  she  glanced  at  the  other  woman, 
who  was  still  in  the  room. 

"  First  of  yourself,  Madame  Eeichstein.  You 
are  recovered — really  recovered  and  strong,  I 
hope  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  think  so.  I  was  not  very  well 
all  the  winter ;  and  many  things  made  me  un- 
easy and  distressed." 

She  looked  at  me  with  such  an  expression 
that  I  knew  she  referred  to  her  husband.  In- 
deed, I  believe  her  German  companion  was  quite 
in  her  confidence  on  this  point. 

"Bat  I  am  better  now— much  better;  quite 
restored,  I  think.  And  Finola  is  married,  and 
has  a  title,  and  is  happy !  And  Ned  Lambert 
is  not  married,  and  is  not  happy !  I  saw  poor 
Ned  the  other  day  in  Paris  ;  dear  good  Ned  ! 
He  is  not  happy — and  he  is  uneasy  about  some 
of  his  friends." 

Here  Christina  lifted  her  eyes  and  let  them 
rest  full  on  me,  as  if  she  would  read  my  very 
heart.  I  don't  think  I  met  the  gaze  quite 
boldly. 

"  Did  you  meet  many  friends  in  Nice  ?"  I 
asked,  not  knowing  any  thing  else  to  say. 


"  Some ;  not  many.     Mr.  Lyndon  was  there 
part  of  the  time." 
"So  I  heard." 

I  now  looked  fixedly  at  Christina  in  my  turn. 
She*  did  not  wince. 

'  I  believe, "  she  said,  quite  carelesslv,  "  some 
people  say  Mr.  Lyndon  and  I  are  to  be  niarried.  — 
What  do  you  think  of  that  story,  Meta  ?" 
Meta  smiled  a  dry  smile. 
"  Herr  Lyndon  is  ein  bischen  alt — a  little  old," 
was  her  only  remark  ;  and  in  a  moment  or  two, 
to  my  great  relief,  she  left  the  room,  and  I  pre- 
pared to  hear  what  Christina  had  to  say. 

When  Meta  was  present,  Christina  had  been 
sitting  on  a  music-stool,  while  I  sat  quite  away 
on  a  chair  near  the  window.  When  we  were 
left  alone  she  rose  and  stood  near  the  fire-place, 
where,  bright  spring  day  though  it  was,  there 
were  blazing  embers,  and  she  motioned  to  me 
to  come  near. 

I  came  and  stood  close  beside  her. 
"I  have  asked  you  to  come,"  she  said,  "to 
speak  of  you,  not  of  me." 

I  suppose  that  was  a  note  of  defiance  in  re- 
Dly  to  my  look  when  we  spoke  of  Mr.  Lyndon. 
There  was  nothing  indeed  I  wished  to  say  or 
;o  hear  said  on  the  subject  of  Mr.  Lyndon  and 
his  attentions,  or  the  talk  they  created.  I 
merely  bowed  my  head  in  token  of  assent. 

Then  Christina,  throwing  back  her  hair  with 
ne  hand,  and  looking  fixedly  at  jne  for  an  in- 
stant or  two,  said  : 

"Now,  Emanuel,  I  have  something  earnest 
o  say  to  you.     Just  a  word  or  two  of  question 
ind  of  warning.     You  will  take  both  question 
and  warning  in  a  friendly  spirit,  will  you  not  ?" 
I  think  I  now  knew  what  was  coming,  al- 
hough  the  reader  does  not.     I  fear  I  flushed 
little  ;  but  I  answered  calmly, 
"Surely,  Christina,  I  could  not  receive  any 
word  from  you  but  as  a  friend." 

"  I  thank  you  for  the  confidence.  Now  for 
he  word,  Emanuel.  What  about  Lilla  Lyn- 
lon  ?" 

"  About  Lilla  Lyndon  !     Which  Lilla  Lyn- 
on?     There  are  two." 
Christina  shook  her  head. 
"  Not  worthy  of  you,  Emanuel.      Evasion  to 
o  purpose.     Tell  me  to  mind  my  own  affairs 
nd  leave  you  to  yours,  and  I  will  do  so.     But 
F  you  allow  me  to  be  yqur  friend,  and  admit 
onfidence,  don't  evade.     I  have*  always  con- 
ded  in  you." 

"I  don't  think  you  have." 
"So  far  as  I  could*just  now.     I  have  told 
ou  there  are  certain  things  I  can  not  quite  ex- 
lain  even  yet,  but  that  they  shall  be  explained. 
I  have  never  evaded  your  questions.     I  once 
rather  anticipated  them — put  them  for  you  and 
gave  the  answers,  so  far  as  any  answer  might  be 
given.     Now,  have  you  not  been  evading  my 
question?     Did  you  not  understand  it?     Did 
I  not  see  in  your  face  that  you  underst^fc 
it?" 

"  Well,  Christina,  I  suppose  I  did.      It  is  no 
use  trying  to  evade  so  keen  a  questioner ;  and 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


Ill 


I  wish  I  had  answered  you  directly  at  once,  | 
and  riot  given  an  appearance  of  mystery  where 
there  is  none,  and  no  need  of  any.  Come,  put 
any  question  you  will — only  don't  expect  that 
any  thing  mysterious  or  romantic  or  interesting 
is  likely  to  come  in  the  way  of  answer." 

"Well,  then,  again:  what  about  Lilla  Lyn- 
'don  ?" 

"I  can  only  say,  so  far  as  I  know,  nothing. 
To  Lilla  Lyndon  I  am  nothing.  To  me  she  is 
a  sweet,  calm,  pure-hearted  creature,  who  seems 
to  come  out  of  dreamland,  or  poetry,  or  some 
old  chronicle  of  saints — and  that  is  all." 

"How  long  have  you  known  her?" 

"  Comparatively  speaking,  a  short  time.  The 
first  time  I  ever  saw  her,  and  spoke  to  her,  was 
before  I  went  to  Italy,  and  I  then  saw  her  hard- 
ly five  minutes.  Last  season  I  saw  her  with  you, 
as  you  will  remember.  Since  I  came  back,  I 
— I  did  meet  her  again." 

"That  is,  you  threw  yourself  in  her  way?" 

"I  did ;  but  not  for  any  purpose  of  my  own. 
I  threw  myself  in  her  way  because  I  thought  I 
saw  through  her  a  means  of  helping  and  serv- 
ing two  dear  friends — you  know  them  both — 
Ned  Lambert  and  Lilla,  the  other  Lilla,  Lyn- 
don. Most  truly  can  I  say  I  did  not  selfishly 
do  this ;  but  I  did  it,  and  this  was  how  our  ac- 
quaintance began." 

"All  that  I  knew." 

"Then  that  is  all." 

"No,  not  nearly  all.  You  have  met  her 
lately  ?" 

"I  have." 

"And  often?'' 

"Yes,  often.'' 

"In  plain  words,  you  have  met  this  girl  reg- 
ularly, by  appointment  with  her,  in  Kensington 
Gardens  ?" 

"No,  Christina,  that  is  not  so.  Whoever 
told  you  that  part  of  the  story  told  you  what 
was  not  true,  what  was  flatly  false ;  and  if  it 
were  a  man,  I  should  like  to  have  a  chance  of 
saying  as  much  to  him.  One  word  of  this 
kind  never  passed  between  us.  We  never  met 
by  appointment.  I  am  not  so  mean  as  to  think 
of  such  a  thing ;  and  if  I  had  suggested  it,  I  must 
have  been  answered  just  as  I  deserved." 

"Well,  I  hear  all  this  with  pleasure — with 
some  pleasure,  at  least.  But  you  have  met 
several  times,  quite  by  accident,  as  she  walked 
in  Kensington  Gardens.  She  has  stopped  and 
spoken  to  you  at  the  railings  as  she  rode  in  the 
Bow." 

"  She  has ;  and  to  many  others  too." 

"Yes  ;  the  recognized  friends  of  her  family ; 
her  father's  friends." 

I  felt  myself  flushing  with  anger.  I  wish  I 
could  have  felt  myself  clear  enough  of  con- 
science to  reply. 

"  Come,  Emanuel,  again  let  me  quote  Zwisch- 
en  uns  sei  Wahrheit.  You  have  deliberately  put 
yourself  in  the  way  of  meeting  Miss  Lyndon  ?" 

"I  have." 

"  And  you  have  met  her  so  often  and  so  reg- 
ularly that  you  can  nearly  always  count  upon 


meeting  her  on  certain  days  in  the  same  place. 
This  is  true  ?" 

"It  is  true." 

"  And  she  is — well,  not  to  be  hard  upon  your 
years,  which  would  seem  painfully  like  being 
hard  on  my  own — she  is  at  least  fourteen  or  fif- 
teen years  younger  than  you — is,  in  fact,  con- 
siderably under  age  ?" 

"She  is." 

"  And  you  think  you  are  acting  honorably  in 
this?" 

"I  do  not!"  I  exclaimed,  so  suddenly  and 
sharply  that  Christina  drew  back  a  little  and 
glanced  uneasily  at  the  door,  as  if  fearful  lest 
we  should  have  been  overheard.  "  I  do  not, 
Christina!  I  count  it  dishonorable — frankly 
dishonorable.  I  have  been  ashamed  of  myself 
long  enough  for  doing  it.  When  a  poor  boy  in 
a  small  sea -port,  I  would  not  have  done  so. 
But  I  have  changed,  and  life  has  been  dull  and 
lonely  to  me,  and  I  did  like  to  meet  that  sweet 
pure  girl,  who  seemed  to  me  something  so  un- 
like the  common  world  that  her  very  presence 
brightened  life  to  me.  And  I  am  afraid  I  liked 
it  none  the  less  because  I  detested  that  cold- 
blooded, sensuous,  selfish  old  hypocrite,  her  fa- 
ther." 

"  Hush,  hush,  Emanuel,  you  don't  know  Mr. 
Lyndon — you  and  he  seem,  I  can't  tell  how,  to 
have  a  sort  of  instinctive  aversion  to  each  oth- 
er." 

"  No ;  I  don't  suppose  he  even  honors  me 
with  his  aversion — and  I  don't  care." 

"  Then  let  him  pass ;  come  to  his  daughter. 
I  think  I  am  satisfied,  Emanuel.  I  think,  as 
you  look  this  thing  so  fearlessly  "in  the  face  and 
don't  spare  yourself,  you  need  no  farther  ap- 
peal— no  appeal  from  me  ;  still,  I  meant  to  give 
you  a  warning.  Let  me  give  it  before  you 
leave  ;  we  shall  not  often  have  such  confiden- 
tial conversations.  Emanuel,  do  you  love  this 
girl?" 

I  turned  away,  and  walked  to  the  window. 
Christina  came  to  me,  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
my  shoulder. 

"Speak  frankly  to  me — as  to  your  friend  or 
your  sister.  Do  you  love  her?" 

"  Can  you  ask  such  a  question  ?" 
•  "Oh  yes.  Gone  is  gone,  my  friend,  and 
dead  is  dead.  I  don't  expect  that  the  past 
could  live  forever  in  your  heart,  and  I  should 
be  sorry  if  it  did.  Let  us  remember  nothing 
but  so  much  as  may  give  us  a  right  to  trust  in 
each  other.  You  do,  then,  love  her?" 

Christina's  voice  trembled  a  little  as  she  spoke. 

"  Christina,  I  have  not  thought  of  loving  her ; 
not  in  that  sense.-  Not  as  I  loved  you — not  as 
I—" 

"Then  why  do  you  meet  her?" 

"  Because  I  was  lonely,  and  at  odds  with  ev- 
ery thing,  and  her  voice  sounded  sweetly  in  my 
ears,  and  her  eyes  looked  kindly  on  me :  and 
she  was  a  mild  delightful  influence,  and  I  was 
selfish  enough  to  think  of  nothing  else." 

"  Then  my  warning  may  be  of  use.  Listen, 
Emanuel.  If  you  loved  the  girl  passionately, 


112 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER 


and  hoped  to  marry  her,  you  might  possibly  ! 
gain  your  wish ;  for  I  believe  there  is  nothing  i 
her  father  would  not  in  the  end  consent  to  for  ! 
her  sake.     But  I  don't  believe  you  could  be  | 
happy  with  her,  or  she  with  you.      She  is  a  ' 
sweet,  loving  child,  with  a  child's  feelings.    She  j 
has,  I  think,  no  strength  of  character,  no  endur- 
ing, absorbing  affection.     Either  she  must  lead 
a  life  with  you  to  which  she  would  be  utterly 
unused — you  know  that  she  has  never  breathed 
our  atmosphere  of  Bohemia — or  you  must  live 
a  kind  of  pensioner  on  her  father,  maintained 
as  the  husband  whom  his  willful  and  fooli: 
daughter  would  marry,  and  who  therefore  mua 
be  taken  into  the  family  circle.     You  wince  un 
der  this.     Is  it  not  true  ?" 

"But  there  never  was  the  faintest  idea  o 
any  thing  of  the  kind.    Never.     Good  Heavens 

one  may  speak  to  a  young  lady  without " 

"Yes,  one  may;   but  when  one  meets  th 
young  lady  very  often  clandestinely — " 
"Clandestinely!" 

"What  other  word  can  you  find  for  it 
Clandestinely,  and  nothing  else.  When  on 
does  this,  he  must  contemplate  something,  o 
he  must  have  no  brains  and  heart  at  all ;  an 
you  have  both.  Emanuelj  I  would,  at  almos 
any  risk,  save  you  from  an  entanglement  tha 
could  only  end,  I  am  sure,  in  unhappiness. 
speak  to  you,  therefore,  with  an  openness  whic 
perhaps  wise  people  and  good  people  woul 
think  does  me  little  credit.  Lilla  Lyndon  love 
you!" 

I  am  afraid  the  first  emotion  created  in  nu 
by  this  declaration  was  a  pang  of  fierce  anc 
wild  delight.  '  It  was  followed  quickly,  as  by  a 
rush  of  cold  air  on  a  burning  forehead,  by  a 
chilling  sense  of  hopelessness  and  pain  and 
shame. 

"It  can  not  be  so,  Christina ;  it  is  not  so." 
"  It  is  so  ;  I  know  it.     Do  you  think  I  would 
talk  of  the  poor  girl  so  if  I  did  not  know  what 
I  was  saying  ?     It  is  so.     I  have  seen  her  late- 
ly ;  I  know  her  well ;   I  have  talked  with  her 
many  times ;  she  has  come  and  seen  me  here 
in  this  room ;   and  a  thousand  things,  a  thou- 
sand words,  have  betrayed  her  poor  little  secret 
to  me.     Perhaps  she  does  not  know  it  herself. 
I  don't  suppose  she  has  ever  indulged  much  ifi 
examination  of  her  own  heart.     Wh'afof  that  ? 
I  have  eyes,  and  can  see.     If  she  were  sinking 
into  a  consumption,  she  might  not  know  it ;  but 
I  should  know  it,  or  you.     There  is  nothing 
much  to  wonder  at  in  the  matter,  Emanuel. 
The  poor  girl  has  hardly  ever  met  any  men  but 
elderly  members  of  Parliament,  and  heavy  cap- 
italists, and  bishops.     I  know  Mr.  Lyndon  too 
well  to  suppose  he  would  allow  any  poor  and 
handsome  young  curate  ever  to  come  near  his 
daughter.      Wohlavf!     Your  whole  life  is  to 
her  something  interesting,  strange,  romantic. 
What  is  there  to  wonder  at  ?    I  dare  say  if  she 
had  met  a  dove-eyed  young  clergyman  in  good 
time,  the  thing  never  would  have  happened. 
Mr.  Lyndon  is  like  the  man  in  ^Esop  who  shut 
up  his  son  in  a  tower  lest  he  should  be  killed 


by  the  lion ;  and,  behold,  the  picture  of  a  lion 
on  the  Avail  brought  his  death." 

Christina  spoke  with  flashing  eyes,  and  with 
all  the  dramatic  energy  she  always  had  shown 
since  her  girlhood,  whenever  she  felt  any  in- 
terest in  what  she  was  saying.  A  stranger 
might  have  thought  she  was  acting  even  now  • 
but  I  knew  she  was  not. 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  this— even  if  it  be 
true  ?'' 

"Because  I  think  I  am  speaking  to  a  man 
of  honor  and  spirit,  and  that  the  best  appeal  to 
you  I  can  make  is  by  the  full  frank  truth  " 

"What  would  you  have  me  do-supposing 
all  this  to  be  true  ?" 

"Give  up  this  girl— leave  her— never  see  her 
again !  Leave  her  before  it  be  too  late.  She 
will  forget  you,  Emanuel,  believe  me ;  she  will 
forget  you,  if  only  you  leave  her  in  time ;  and 
she'  will  marry  somebody  her  father  likes,  and 
she  will  be  a  good  obedient  girl,  and  very  hap- 
py, and  her  days  will  be  long  in  the  land,  as  the 
story-books  put  it,  or  the  religious  books,  or 
what  you  will.  And  you  will  forget  her;  you 
say  even  now  you  do  not  actually  love  her. 
She  will  cry  a  little,  perhaps ;  but  all  girls  cry 
for  something,  and  I  really  don't  think  it  much 
matters  for  what." 

'  Christina,  I  don't  like  your  tone— I  don't 
like  your  way  of  speaking." 

She  laughed— a  low,  slight,  scornful  laugh. 

"Not  romantic  and  tender  and  sentimental 
enough,  perhaps  ?  But  look  what  your  romance 
and  tenderness  come  to.  You  are  teaching  this 
girl  to  deceive  her  father— yes,  you  are— yet 
you  don't  know  that  you  love  her,  and  you  have 
no  object  whatever  in  meeting  her !  ' Turare  ! 
You  are  not  a  boy,  Emanuel,  to  act  so  any 
longer." 

I  bit  my  lips.  I  felt  vexed  and  ashamed, 
and  only  too  conscious  that  I  deserved  all  she 
said  or  could  say. 

"Well,  Christina,  I  must  try  to  deserve  your 
better  opinion,  and  to  act  with  more  judgment 
•md  manliness.  I  make  no  promise,  and  I 
must  act  for  myself  in  my  own  way ;  but  I  Hope 
^ou  shall  have  no  further  cause  to" feel  ashamed 
or  me." 

"That  is  like  yourself— your  old  self;  I  am 
ure  you  will  do  right  after  all.  I  would  not 
alk  to  you  in  this  way,  if  I  thought  you  loved 
his  girl;  I  would  rather  say,  Fling  every 
bought  away  but  that  of  loving  her  and  hold- 
ng  her  against  the  world.  But  you  do  not, 
nd  I  think  she  will  be  cured  at  last  of  her  love 
'or  you." 

I  rose  to  close  the  conversation. 
"I  will  do  my  best,  Christina.     Existence, 
suppose,  is  always  to  be  a  bore  and  a  wean- 
ess  and  a  renunciation  to  me.    Well,  I  accept 
le  situation  ;   it  will   come  to  an  end  some 
me." 

Oh,  pray,  don't  speak  so." 

Yes ;  I  am  weary  of  every  thing.  I  am 
ck  of  this  wretched  profession  — or  art,  or 
hatever  you  choose  to  call  it— for  which  I 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


113 


have  no  heart  and  no  genius,  and  in  which  I 
know  I  can  never  come  to  any  thing  worth  liv- 
ing for.  I  am  tired  of  the  people  one  meets, 
and  the  follies  one  commits,  and  the  weary  re- 
straints one  has  to  put  on  if  he  would  not  com- 
mit follies,  and  worse.  What  is  one's  motive 
in  living  ?  I  don't  know." 

"Still  we  live,  my  dear;  and  we  can  but 
make  the  best  of  it.  I  at  least  will  not  see  you 
sink  away,  Emanuel,  into  any  folly  or  fatality 
without  saying  a  word  to  interpose.  Perhaps 
you  think  I  have  no  right  to  preach  or  to  ad- 
vise?" 

I  waved  my  hand  to  repudiate  this  idea. 

"  But  we  made  a  pledge  of  friendship,  Eman- 
uel, when  we  entered  on — that  new  chapter  of 
'our  lives ;  and  I  have  kept  it  in  my  heart  as 
sacredly  as  I  could,  though  we  have  not  often 
met.  And  I  do  not — indeed,  I  do  not — think 
this  you  have  done  could  come  to  any  happi- 
ness for  you  or  for  her.  Perhaps  I  don't  un- 
derstand the  little  girl  quite,  you  will  say,"  and 
she  smiled  slightly;  "but  if  I  am  wrong,  the 
thing  will  come  to  pass  none  the  less  because  I 
ask  you  to  be  open  and  manly,  and  yet  careful. 
You  ask  me  what  is  the  use  of  living,  and  how 
one  is  to  bear  with  life?  My  good  friend,  oth- 
ers have  bitter  burdens  too  to  bear,  and  bitter 
bad  temptations  to  resist ;  and  I  could  tell  you 
how  they  learn  to  do  it,  only  I  dare  not  yet ; 
you  would  smile  at  me,  or  think  me  hypocritical, 
and  I  could  not  bear  either.  But  one  time  I 
will  tell  you — that,  and  other  things  too  which 
now  perhaps  you  do  not  know  or  guess.  No, 
don't  ask  for  explanation ;  I  have  said  enough, 
and  too  much.  Now,  good-by  !" 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

IN   KENSINGTON   GARDENS. 

THE  conversation  with  Christina,  which  left 
me  a  little  mystified  in  the  end,  has  at  least 
cleared  up  something  of  my  story  since  the 
Lyndons,  mother  and  daughter,  left  London. 
Perhaps  it  has  told  so  much  that  I  might  now 
go  straight  on  with  the  rest  as  it  occurred,  and 
without  turning  back  to  review  or  explain  any 
thing.  But  it  would  possibly  be  well  to  give  a 
few  lines  to  a  candid  recapitulation  of  what  had 
taken  place,  and  to  a  chapter  of  my  life  which 
I  always  look  back  on  with  a  mixture  of  pride 
and  of  shame. 

When  poor  Ned  Lambert  was  left  by  Lilla 
Lyndon,  he  and  I  spoke  but  a  very  few  words 
over  the  matter :  few,  but  enough.  He  was  a 
silent  fellow  by  nature,  and  a  man  to  crush  down 
what  he  felt.  He  knew  how  thoroughly  I  sym- 
pathized with  him  ;  and  a  grip  of  the  hand  from 
such  a  man  or  to  such  a  man  is  incomparably 
more  eloquent  than  words.  His  nature  was 
quiet,  patient,  confiding;  he  kneAV  that  Lilla 
loved  him,  he  knew  that  there  was  some  reason 
why  he  must  at  least  submit  to  wait ;  and  he 
submitted,  and  asked  no  questions.  He  did  not 


maunder,  or  mope,  or  idly  repine  at  fate  or  any 
thing  else,  but  only  seemed  to  throw  a  fiercer 
energy  into  every  thing  he  did,  to  the  very 
smoking  of  a  cigar ;  and  he  used  to  sit  up  half 
the  night  devising  new  improvements  in  the 
construction  of  organs.  He  told  me  he  went  to 
see  Christina  sometimes,  but  never  when  any 
body  was  likely  to  be  there.  He  "dropped  her 
a  line,"  he  said,  when  he  felt  anxious  to  say  a 
word  to  her,  and  she  always  set  apart  a  time  to 
suit  him  at  the  earliest  moment.  Like  most 
silent  men,  he  was,  I  am  sure,  ready  to  be  very 
effusive  and  confidential  with  any  *woman  he 
trusted  in ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  told 
Christina  every  word  of  his  disappointment  and 
his  love,  and  talked  to  her  as  he  would  not — 
indeed,  as  he  could  not — have  talked  to  any 
man  alive. 

Meanwhile  his  occupations  took  him  a  good 
deal  out  of  town.  I  don't  know  whether  Lilla 
Lyndon  wrote  to  him  :  she  wrote  to  me  some- 
times, and  gr.ve  me  good  news  of  her  prosper- 
ous and  promising  occupation  in  Paris.  Of 
course  I  told  her  all  about  Ned  Lambert,  and 
hardly  any  thing  else,  when  I  replied.  After  a 
while  she  began  to  tell  me  that  she  had  received 
the  sweetest,  kindest  letters  from  her  cousin 
Lilla,  whom  she  had  never  seen,  but  who  had 
suddenly  opened  up  a  correspondence  with  her. 
Lilla  the  elder — Ned's  Lilla — was  greatly  amazed 
and  delighted  at  this,  and  could  not  understand 
it  at  all.  I  felt  like  one  who  is  conscious  of 
having  done  something  delightfully  good,  and 
is  proud  of  having  it  known  only  to  himself. 
After  a  while  I  began  to  take  a  somewhat 
modified  and  less  flattering  view  of  my  own 
position  in  the  transaction. 

For  all  had  happened  as  I  told  Christina.  I 
had  acted  on  the  idea  of  making  Lilla  the 
younger  the  angelic,  celestial  mediatrix  in  the 
whole  of  the  painful  business.  I  felt  sure  that 
her  influence  over  her  father  would  have  power 
enough  to  induce  him,  for  the  sake  of  the  other 
Lilla,  to  buy  off  or  pension  off  in  some  way  his 
wretched  brother — send  him  to  America  or 
Australia,  or  any  where  out  of  the  way.  Many 
times  I  passed  her  door  to  no  purpose.  One 
day  at  last  I  saw  her  as  her  groom  was  holding 
her  horse's  head  and  she  was  about  to  mount. 
Perhaps  if  she  had  not  seen  me  then,  and  cord- 
ially recognized,  I  might  not  have  ventured  to 
speak  to  her  ;  but  she  did  see  me,  and  gave  me 
a  frank  and  friendly  recognition ;  and  then  I 
went  up  and  presented  myself  to  her,  and  told 
her  without  hesitation  that  I  came  of  my  own 
counsel,  unasked  by  any  body,  unknown  to  any 
body,  to  plead  for  her  good  offices  on  behalf  of 
her  cousin,  the  other  Lilla.  Whatever  of  se- 
crecy might  afterward  have  grown  up,  this  at 
least  was  done  openly,  at  her  father's  door,  un- 
der the  eyes  if  not  within  the  hearing  of  her 
groom,  in  the  face  of  day.  She  received  me 
with  that  innocent,  genial,  sympathetic  trust- 
ingness  which  nothing  but  purity  and  nobleness 
of  heart  ever  can  give. 

I  confess  that  as  I  spoke  to  her  that  time, 


114 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


and  saw  her  pure,  calm  eyes  turned  to  me,  am 
heard  her  sympathetic,  tender,  girlish  voice,  . 
thought  that  between  her  and  me  lay  a  distanc 
as  broad  as  between  two  creatures  of.differen 
worlds.  It  no  more  occurred  to  me  as  possibl 
that  such  a  woman  could  turn  one  thought  to 
ward  me  than  that  one  of  the  Madonnas  of 
marble  in  an  Italian  chapel  could  have  com 
down  from  her  pedestal  in  the  sacred  stillnes 
of  the  evening,  and,  like  Diana,  kissed  some 
mortal  worshiper. 

She  had  only  known  before  that  she  had 
cousin  whom  her  father  would  not  suffer  her  to 
see ;  of  her  uncle  she  had  known  nothing.  Sh< 
spoke  to  her  father,  and  pleaded  hard  ;  and  al 
she  obtained  was  permission  to  write  to  the 
other  Lilla  Lyndon.  From  Lilla  the  elder  sh( 
doubtless  received  encomiums  of  my  honor  anc 
integrity  and  brotherly  affection,  and  so  forth 
which  led  her  to  confide  frankly  in  me.  She 
did  not  despair  at  all  of  winning  over  her  father 
and  but  for  the  too  frequent  presence  of  hei 
hard  and  puritanical  step-sisters — she  was  the 
daughter,  the  only  child,  of  Mr.  Lyndon's  sec- 
ond marriage — she  might  much  sooner  have 
prevailed.  I  learned  from  her  that  she  had 
actually  found  out  and  tried  to  redeem,  and 
petted  and  largely  bribed,  the  wretched  old 
scoundrel,  her  uncle ;  and  that  she  really  did 
contrive,  by  her  influence,  and  still  more  by  hei 
money,  to  keep  him  from  making  any  more 
scandal.  How  I  sickened  at  the  idea  of  her 
meeting  the  odious  old  hypocrite!  and  yet  I 
did  not  dare  to  hint  at  what  I  thought  of  him. 
She  had,  with  all  her  sweetness,  a  sort  of  reso- 
lute sanctified  willfulness  about  her ;  and  no- 
thing on  earth,  except  perhaps  her  father's 
absolute  command,  could  have  kept  her  from 
trying  to  do  good  to  her  outcast  uncle.  Mean- 
while the  only  good  of  keeping  him  temporarily 
decent  was  that  it  made  her  father  feel  con- 
vinced his  brother  would  not  dare  to  annoy 
him  any  more,  and  therefore  more  than  ever 
determined  not  to  yield  to  any  entreaty  on  his 
behalf. 

What  I  confessed  to  Christina  explains  all 
the  rest.  We  met  by  chance  frequently.  I 
found  it  was  Lilla's  habit  to  walk  almost  every 
day  in  Kensington  Gardens  for  half  an  hour  or 
so.  It  was  only,  so  to  speak,  crossing  the 
street  from  her  own  house ;  and  her  maid  was 
generally  with  her.  We  spoke  together :  she 
had  always  something  to  say  to  me  about  the 
progress  of  her  endeavors  on  behalf  of  her 
cousin.  She  did  sometimes  come  alone.  I 
did  observe  the  hour  and  day  of  her  coming, 
and  I  did  always  contrive  to  be  there.  To 
speak  to  her  did  always  seem  to  sweeten  and 
purify  life  for  me.  I  did  at  last  begin  to  think 
I  was  acting  a  mean  and  shameful  part,  al- 
though no  word  had  ever  passed  between  us 
which  her  mother,  were  she  living,  might  not 
have  heard.  I  did  begin  to  feel  ashamed  of 
thus  meeting  a  girl  whose  father  would  not,  if 
he  could,  acknowledge  my  existence ;  and, 
what  was  worse  still,  I  did  feel  conscious  of  a 


hideous,  degrading  sens,e  of  gratified  malignity 
in  the  knowledge  of  the  fact.  This  it  was 
which  most  distinctly  told  me  of  my  own  grow- 
ing degradation. 

All  I  had  told  Christina  was  true.  I  did 
not  venture  to  think  with  love»of  Lilla  Lyncloh. 
My  God,  I  never  thought  of  loving  her.  She 
seemed  far  too  pure  and  good,  too  unworldly 
and  childlike  in  her  goodness,  to  be  loved  by  a 
half-outworn  Bohemian  like  me.  She  was  not 
of  my  ways  at  all.  When  I  saw  her  I  only 
breathed  a  purer  air  for  a  moment,  and  then 
went  back  to  my  smoke  and  gas-light  and  Bo- 
hemia again.  But  Christina  spoke  unwisely  : 
she  counted  on  a  romantic  heroism  greater  than 
mine  when  she  told  me  that  such  a  girl  was 
capable  of  loving  me.  Truly,  I  resolved  that 
I  must  cease  to  see  her ;  but  then  I  also  made 
up  my  mind  that  I  must  see  her  once  more, 
and  that  I  must  part  from  her  in  such  a  way 
that  at  least  she  should  not  despise  me.  Sup- 
pose what  Christina  said  to  be  true — and  I  hard- 
ly yet  believed .  it— the  worst  of  the  evil  was 
partly  done,  and  it  could  do  little  more  harm, 
no  more  harm,  to  take  leave  of  Lilla  Lyndon  in 
such  a  way  as  should  at  least  allow  her  to  re- 
tain a  memory  of  me  which  should  not  be  whol- 
ly one  of  contempt. 

I  did  not  once  think  it  possible  that  any  thing 
but  separation  could  come  of  our  strange  ac- 
quaintanceship.   Let  me  do  myself  justice.    So 
much  there  was  equivocal  and  weak,  and  un- 
generous and  mean,  in  this  chapter  of  my  his- 
tory, that  I  must  protect  the  reputation  of  what 
little  honorable  feeling  I  always  retained.    Had 
I  loved  Lilla  with  all  the  passion  of  a  youth's 
first  love,  I  don't  think  I  should  have  attempt- 
ed to  induce  her  to  marry  me :  it  would  have 
eemed  cruelly  unfair  to  her.     There  appeared 
to  be  some  truth  in  what  Christina  said.     Lilla 
probably  did  not  and  could  not  know  her  own 
mind.     Any  feeling  she  might  entertain  for  me 
was  doubtless  but  the  strange,  sudden,  ephem- 
eral sentiment  of  a  girl— the  foolish  romantic 
tenderness  a  young  woman  just  beyond  the 
school-girl's  age  sometimes  feels  toward  her 
music-master  or  her  riding-master.    It  will  die, 
and  be  buried  and  forgotten  in  a  season:  to 
reat  it  as  a  reality  would  be  a  treachery  and  a 
cruelty.     The  more  we  hear  from  the  women 
f  mature  years  who  confide  in  us,  the  more  do 
ve  know  that  almost  every  girl  of  quick  fancy 
and   tenderness  has   had  her  budding  bosom 
filled  for  a  while  with  some  such  whimsical  af- 
ection,  which  fades  before  the  realities  of  life 
and  of  love,  and  is  only  remembered,  if  at  all, 
with  an  easy,  half-mirthful  memory.     To  Lilla 
jyridon,  I  thought  to  myself,  I  shall  soon  be 
uch  a  memory,  and  no  more.     If  I  remain  in 
jondon,  or  return  to  it,  I  shall  hear  of  her  be- 
ng  married  to  some  one  who  brings  her  a  for- 
une  and  a  position;  and  I  shall  read  of  her 
arties  in  the  season,  and  perhaps  some  day  see     ; 
n  the  papers  that  she  has  presented  her  claugh- 
er  at  Court ;  and  we  may  meet  sometimes,  or 
he  will  come  to  hear  me  sing,  and  she  will  be 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


115 


friendly  and  kind,  and  not  ashamed  of  the  fad- 
ing memory  of  these  days.  I  am  surely  the 
most  unfortunate  of  beings  where  any  word  of 


love  is  in  question :  I  seem  to  be  able  only  to 
learn  what  the  thing  is,  or  may  be,  in  order  to 
have  it  taken  away  from  me.  I  must  really 


116 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


make  up  my  mind  to  be  a  stern  old  bachelor, 
and  have  done  with  all  thoughts  of  what  is 
clearly  not  for  me.  Yesterday  I  was  a  boy  too 
young. to  marry;  now  I  am  getting  rather  eld- 
erly for  such  ideas.  Let  me  close  the  chapter 
altogether ;  let  me  see  Lilla  Lyndon«once,  only 
once,  and  bid  her  a  kind  good-by,  and  relieve 
my  soul  by  confessing  that  I  have  done  wrong, 
and  beg  of  her  still  to  think  of  the  other  Lilla ; 
and  then  I  will  go  and  tell  Christina  what  I 
have  done,  and  she  will  at  least  approve  ;  and 
so  the  drudgery  of  life  will  just  go  on  as  before. 

I  had  walked,  thus  thinking,  along  Piccadil- 
ly, which  was  glaring  and  garish  in  the  sun,  and 
by  Apsley  House  (where,  when  first  I  came  to 
London,  one  might  yet  see  "the  Duke"  get- 
ting into  his  queerly- shaped  cab),  into  Hyde 
Park,  and  so  to  Kensington  Gardens.  When 
I  reached  the  shade  of  the  noble  old  trees  of 
Kensington  I  walked  slowly,  and  lingered  and 
looked  anxiously  around.  I  came  within  sight 
of  the  little  round  basin  which  lies,  so  pretty  a 
lakelet,  in  the  bosom  of  the  open,  which  the 
trees  fringe  all  round,  and  whence  the  glades 
and  vistas  stretch  out.  London  has  nothing  so 
exquisite  as  just  that  spot.  With  the  old  red 
palace  near  at  hand,  and  no  other  building  in 
sight,  one  may  ignore  the  great  metropolis  al- 
together, and  fancy  himself  in  a  park  of  Anne's 
days,  embedded  deep  in  the  heart  of  some  se- 
cluded country  landscape.  A  slight  breeze  to- 
day ruffled  the  surface  of  the  little  pond,  over 
which  the  water-fowl  were  skimming,  and  the 
shadows  of  birds  fell  broken  on  it  as  they  flew 
overhead ;  and  a  light  cloud  could  now  and 
then  be  seen  reflected  in  it.  The  whole  scene 
was  gracious,  gentle,  tender,  with  a  faint  air 
of  melancholy  about  it,  which  was  but  a  new 
grace. 

On  one  of  the  seats  which  look  upon  the  lit- 
tle basin  I  saw  Lilla  Lyndon  sitting.  She  had 
a  book  in  her  hand,  but  she  was  not  reading. 
She  looked  up  from  the  water  as  I  approached, 
and  greeted  me  with  a  frank,  bright  smile. 
She  was  a  very  handsome  girl,  with  her  youth- 
ful Madonna  contour  of  face,  her  pale  clear 
complexion  and  violet  eyes,  and  dark  brown 
hair  parted  smoothly,  as  was  then  the  fashion, 
on  either  brow.  As  her  brilliant  red  lips  part- 
ed and  showed  her  white  small  teeth,  a  gleam 
of  vivacity  for  the  first  time  lighted  the  face,  of 
which  the  habitual  expression  was  a  tender 
calmness,  almost  a  melancholy  beauty,  like  that 
of  the  sunlight  on  the  water  beneath' her. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come,"  she  said,  after 
she  had  given  me  her  hand,  "  for  I  came  here 
much  earlier  than  usual  to-day,  and  it  is  lone- 
ly, and  I  have  felt  rather  weary.  I  have  just 
been  wondering — perhaps  you  can  help  me  to 
understand  it — why  inanimate  nature  is  all  so 
melancholy,  and  why  the  least  throb  of  life 
seems  to  be  joyous.  I  have  been  looking  at 
that  pool,  and  the  light  and  the  leaves,  and  they 
all  seem  sad ;  and  a  water-fowl  just  plunges 
into  the  pond,  and  floats  and  dives,  and  the 
sadness  seems  to  vanish  in  a  moment." 


"I  fear  I  am  not  poet  enough  to  understand 
it." 

"But  you  ought  to  be  a  poet— in  soul,  at 
least.  A  singer  must  be  a  poet,  I  think,  or 
how  can  he  sing?  You  have  made  me  feel 
poetic  many  times." 

"So  I  dare  say  has  a  harp  or  a  violin.  I 
have  as  much  music  in  my  soul  as  the  fiddle." 

"  Oh,  but  that  is  nonsense.  There  is  some- 
thing I  read  lately  that  reminds  me  of  a  word 
or  two  I  once  heard  from  you  about  music.  I 
have  been  reading  that  novel  of  Richter's  you 
told  me  to  get— the  Flegeljahre.  Well,  the 
poet-brother  praises  the  flutist-brother's  exqui- 
site performance ;  but  unfortunately  he  gives  as 
his  reason  for  admiration  that  the  music  brought 
up  all  the  most  tender  and  delightful  associa- 
tions to  his  memory.  I  should  have  thought 
that  the  highest  praise:  should  not  you?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"No?  Well,  so  too  says  Vult  the  flute- 
player.  He  is  quite  disappointed,  and  shakes 
his  head,  and  says:  'I  see,  then,  that  you  did 
not  understand  or  appreciate  the  music  at  all.' 
So  it  is  with  me.  When  I  most  delight  in 
music,  it  is  because  it  brings  up  something 
which  is  not  in  the  music  itself." 

"And  I  too,  Miss  Lyndon;  and  therefore  I 
know  I  am  not  a  true  musician." 

"Then  who  is?" 

"Well,  Madame  Reichstein  is,  and  many 
others." 

"  Yes ;  papa  always  says  Madame  Reichstein 
is.  I  delight  in  Madame  Reichstein  myself, 
both  on  the  stage  and  oft';  more  even  when  off, 
I  think." 

"You  have  met  her  lately  ?" 

"Yes,  several  times.  I  make  papa  take  me 
to  see  her.  I  never  knew  a  great  singer  before 
— a  woman,  I  mean.  I  think  her  very  charm-, 
ing.  Is  she  what  people  call  a  lady  ?" 

"Not  what  Belgravia  calls  a  lady,  certainly. 
Her  father  was  a  German  toymaker." 

"You  are  angry  with  me  for  my  question," 
said  Lilla,  opening  her  violet  eyes  widely,  and 
looking  at  me  with  quite  a  pathetic  expression, 
"and  you  think  me  a  fool ;  but  do  you  know 
the  reason  I  asked  the  question  ?  I  had  a  rea- 
son." 

"  I  don't  know  the  reason,  Miss  Lyndon." 

"Just  this,  then:  somebody — a  woman  to 
whom  I  talked  of  Madame  Reichstein — chose 
to  speak  rather  contemptuously  of  her,  and  said 
she  was  not  a  lady.  I  asked  rather  sharply, 
why  not  ?  and  she  answered  that  she  was  not  a 
[ady  of  rank  oft"  the  stage,  like  Madame  Sontag 
and  somebody  else,  I  don't  know  whom  ;  and 
that  she  is  not  received  in  society.  So  much 
the  worse  for  society,  I  thought." 

"I  suppose  society  has  its  laws  every  where. 
[  don't  suppose  Madame  Reichstein  cares.  I 
am  sure  she  is  not  ashamed  of  having  been  born 
ooor,  any  more  than  I  am,  Miss  Lyndon.  My 
ather  was  a  boat-builder,  my  mother  sewed 
gloves ;  my  genealogy  goes  no  farther  back.  I 
don't  suppose  I  ever  had  a  grandfather." 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


117 


You  speak  coldly,   or   angrily,   as  if  yot 
thought  I  cared  about  people's  grandfathers, 
said  Lilla,  gently;  "I  wish  I  had  not  said  an 
thing  about  Madame  Keichstein,  whom  I  think 
I  admire  as  highly  as  any  body  can.     You  can 
~ot  suppose  I  really  care  whether  her  fathe: 
v    •:-  a  poor  man  or  a  rich  man  ?" 

"Frankly,  Miss  Lyndon,  I  doubt  whethe: 
people  ever  get  quite  over  these  feelings.  Per 
haps  it  is  better  not.  I  am  always  angry  with 
any  of  my  own  class  who  try  to  get  out  of  it 
and  I  think  them  rightly  treated  when  they  arc 
•  reminded  of  their  social  inferiority." 

I  suppose  I  was  speaking  in  a  tone  of  some 
bitterness.  Lilla's  remark,  innocent  as  it  was_ 
had  jarred  sharply  on  me,  and  seemed  to  point 
the  painful  moral  of  the  course  into  which  I  hac 
been  drifting.  Even  this  child  had  eyes  to  see 
that  she  and  I  had  c*me  from  a  different  class, 
and  belonged  to  a  different  world.  I  had  been 
standing  beside  the  seat  on  which  she  sat.  She 
looked  up  quickly  as  I  spoke ;  then  rose  and 
stood  near  me,  and  with  the  gentlest  action  in 
the  world,  laid  her  small  hand  on  my  arm. 

"I  see  that  I  have  offended  you,"  she  said, 

"  by  my  thoughtless  talk.     But  trust  me,  that 

if  I  thought  less  highly  of  Madame  Eeichstein, 

and— and  of  you,  I  should  never  have  spoken  in 

such  a  way.     I  did  not  suppose  it  possible  you 

could  have  taken  my  words  as  you  have  done. 

It  humiliates  me  even  more  than  you.     Tray, 

'  pray  don't  misunderstand  me ;  I  have  no  friend 

<  I  value  like  you." 

Her  voice  was  a  little  tremulous  in  its  plaint- 
iveness,  and  the  kindliness  of  her  expression 
was  irresistible.  Even  wounded  pride  could 
not  stand  out  against  it. 

"Your  friendship,  Miss  Lyndon,  is  one  of 
the  dearest  things  I  have  on  earth — almost,  in- 
deed, the  only  thing  that  is  dear  to  me.  Let 
me  preserve  it.  Were  you  going  home  ?  and 
may  I  walk  just  a  little  way  with  you  ?" 

"Yes,  I  was  going  home  ;  and  I  shall  be  glad 
of  your  companionship  yet  a  little." 

With  all  our  "  clandestine"  meetings,  we  had 
never  walked  together  before.  Our  sin  against 
propriety  had  been  limited  to  just  the  occasional 
meetings,  the  exchange  of  a  few  words,  and  the 
partings.  Now  I  did  not  offer  her  my  arm  ;  we 
walked  side  by  side  down  one  of  the  glades 
wjiich  stretches  nearly  parallel  with  the  road. 
A  little  girl,  poorly  dressed,  darted  across  our 
path,  then  suddenly  stopped,  and  looking  shyly 
at  me,  dropped  a  courtesy  to  my  companion, 
and  was  going  on,  when  Lilla,  addressing  her 
as  "Lizzy,"  brought  her  to  a  stand.  She  talked 
to  the  child  about  her  father,  who  had  a  sore 
arm,  and  was  out  of  work ;  and  her  mother, 
and  her  brother,  and  so  on ;  and  I  heard  her 
say  she  was  going  to  see  them  that  day ;  and 
she  took  out  a  little  purse,  and  gave  the  girl 
something. 

"  One  of  my  children,"  she  said  in  explana- 
tion ;  "  I  have  a  school ;  a  very  little  one.  I 
have  asked  Madame  Reichstein  to  come  and 
see  it,  and  she  will  sing  for  the  girls.  I  owe  a 


great  deal  to  these  children.  They  give  me 
occupation  ;  I  should  not  k.now  what  to  do  with 
my  existence  but  for  them,  our  house  is  so  very 
dull.  I  suppose  a  home  without  a  mother  al- 
ways is.  Papa  is  so  busy  with  Parliament  and 
politics,  and  so  much  out." 

A  moment's  silence  followed.  Then  I  took 
heart  of  grace  and  said, 

"Just  now,  Miss  Lyndon,  you  were  kind 
enough  to  say  you  thought  of  me  as  a  friend ; 
and  I  asked  you  to  let  me  Reserve  your  friend- 
ship— " 

"  Have  you  not  deserved  it  ?  Did  you  not 
teach  me  how  I  might  perhaps  serve  and  help 
those  who  have  claims  on  me?  Have  I  not 
heard  how  true  and  steady  a  friend  you  were 
to  my  cousin  and  her  mother,  and  her  poor  fa- 
ther ?  Have  I  not  seen  all  this  ?  Mr.  Temple, 
I  don't  know  why  papa  is  so  resolute  in  refus- 
ing to  meet  or  help  my  uncle.  I  suppose  he 
has  good  reason ;  but  I  myself  believe  only  in 
mercy  and  kindness,  and — and  love.  I  don't 
think  our  religion  teaches  us  any  thing  else; 
and  at  least  I  don't  believe  in  human  justice 
when  it  only  punishes.  I  must  try  to  bring  my 
people  together;  and  I  hope  to  succeed.  If  I 
do,  will  not  that  be  a  great  thing  ?  And  how 
could  it  have  been  done  but  for  you  ?" 

"If  it  can  be  done,  it  would  have  been  done 
without  me.  But  I  am  only  too  glad  to  hear 
you  speak  so  kindly  and  hopefully.  I  am  a 
believer  in  your  religion  of  pity  and  mercy  and 
love— or  in  none.  But  I  have  to  deserve  your 
friendship  otherwise  than  in  this  easy  and  pleas- 
ant way.  Miss  Lyndon,  I  have  no  right  to  be 
with  you  here  to-day.  I  have  no  right  to  walk 
your  side.  I  have  no  right  to  come,  as  I 
lave  come,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  meeting  you. 
All  this  is  wrong  in  me,  and  wrong  toward  you. 
You  are  much  younger  than  I  am,  and  your 
dndness  and  friendship  make  you  only  too 
;houghtful  for  others— not  for  yourself.  I  must 
not  see  you  any  more  in  this  way — and  I  could 
not  help  telling  you — and  good-by." 

She  looked  up  at  me  with  a  sudden  startled, 
pained  expression,  and  then  her  eyes  fell,  and 
jver  her  clear  pale  face  there  came  a  faint, 
aint  flush. 

"Not  to  meet  any  more?"  she  said  at  last. 
'  Then  I  have  done  wrong  in  being  here  ?" 

"  Not  you— oh,  not  you.  But  I,  Miss  Lyn- 
lon,  I  have  done  wrong;  I  came  here,  day 
fter  day,  to  meet  you." 

"  Yes ;  I  knew  it— I  expected  you ;  I  wished 
ou  to  come." 

"But   I   am   not  your  father's   friend  —  he 
would  not  approve  of  my  meeting  you." 

'Who  is  to  blame,  Mr.  Temple,  but  your- 
elf  ?     Have  I  not  many  times  asked  you  to  let 
ne  bring  papa  and  you  to  be  friends?     Have 
not  often  told  you  I  felt  convinced  that  if  he 
nly  knew  you,  he  would  appreciate  you  as  I 

"You  have  often  said  so;  but  you  can  not 
now  how  men  of  the  world  think — " 
"But  I  do  know  papa;    and  I  know  that 


118 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


there  are  few  things  I  could  ask  him  which  he 
would  not  grant.  One  of  the  things  I  have  de- 
termined on  is,  that  he  shall  know  you,  and  ap- 
preciate you,  and  like  you.  I  will  tell  him  this 
very  day.  Why  should  you  not  come  to  our 
house,  and  be  of  our  friends,  and  brighten  our 
home  a  little  for  us,  instead  of  some  of  the  dull 
and  pompous  and  uncharitable  and  unloving 
people  who  come  to  us  ?  Mr.  Temple,  if  you 
think  there  is  any  thing  lowering  to  you  in  the 
way  our  acquaintanceship  has  been  carried  on 
so  far,  let  me  bear  the  blame  of  it,  and  there 
shall  be  no  more  cause  for  blame.  I  will  tell 
papa  this  very  day — I  will  tell  him  all." 

"That  I  have  met  you,  and  walked  with 
you  ?" 

"Yes,  every  word.  Why  not?  I  will  tell 
him  the  whole  truth,  and  he  will  believe  me. 
I  will  tell  him  we  met  here  because  I  wished 
to  meet  you,  and  you  were  too  proud  to  come 
to  our  house.  And  I  will  tell  him  that  you 
must  come  often." 

"And  teach  you  to  sing,  perhaps?"  I  could 
not  help  asking,  with  a  rather  melancholy  smile. 

"  Yes ;  why  not  ?  that  is,  if  you  would ;  only 
I  suppose  you  are  again  too  proud,  and  will  be 
offended  if  I  even  mention  such  a  thing.  I 
should  think  it  delightful." 

"Miss  Lyndon,  every  word  you  say  only 
shows  me,  more  and  more,  with  what  noble- 
ness and  innocence — I  must  say  it — you  have 
acted,  and  how  unworthy  of  such  goodness  and 
such  companionship  I  am.  Do  follow  out  your 
right  impulse;  do  speak  to  your  father  thus 
frankly,  and  abide  by  what  he  says." 

"I  will;  and  I  will  tell  him  you  told  me  to 
do  so.  You  will  find  you  do  not  understand 
him  as  well  as  I  do.  Only  you  must  promise 
you  will  come  to  our  house  when  he  asks  you." 

"I  might  safely  promise  on  such  a  condition, 
and  the  result  be  just  the  same,  but  I  will  not. 
I  must  at  last  be  open  and  frank  with  you,  who 
are  so  candid  and  sincere  with  me.  No,  Miss 
Lyndon,  I  can  never  enter  your  house  as  a  sort 
of  tolerated  inferior,  even  if  your  father  did  be- 
come as  good-natured  as  you  expect." 

"  Inferior !  You  pain  me  and  humiliate  me. 
Have  I  acted  as  if  I  thought  you  an  inferior? 
Am  I,  then,  in  your  judgment,  capable  of  giv- 
ing my  warm  friendship  and  my  confidence  to 
an  inferior  ?  For  shame,  Mr.  Temple !  Have 
more  faith  in  yourself  and  your  art,  and  the 
beautiful  life  it  gives.  Have  more  faith  in  me. " 

"I  have  more  faith  in  you  than  in  any  thing 
under  heaven.  But  I  know  what  your  father 
would  think  of  me.  I  know  what  he  would 
say,  and  with  only  too  much  appearance  of  jus- 
tice. I  can  not,  even  for  you,  bear  this,  and 
bear  it  too  to  no  purpose.  Speak  to  him,  if 
you  will,  but  I  could  never  meet  you  under  his 
roof  except  on  conditions  which  I  could  never 
bear,  or  with  an  object  which  is  hopeless  and 
impossible.  No,  Lilla — no,  Miss  Lyndon — " 

"  You  may  call  me  Lilla ;  I  wish  to  be  called 
so." 

"No,  Lilla;  I  have  come  up  from  the  low- 


est life,  but  I  have  some  sense  of  honor,  and 
some  pride.  I  have  done  wrong  thus  far — I 
never  saw  it  so  clearly  as  now ;  but  it  shall  be 
done  no  more.  I  have  your  interest  and  your 
happiness  now  far  too  deeply  at  heart  to  think 
in  the  least  of  any  pain  it  may  give  me — or  even 
you — to  do  right.  To  meet  any  more  would  be 
hopeless  for  me,  and  useless  generosity  on  your 
part." 

"Then  our  friendship  comes  to  an  end?  I 
am  sorry.  I  wished  that  we  might  be  always 
friends — I  felt  life  less  weary." 

"Our  friendship  surely  shall  not  come  to  an 
end.  It  shall  live  always,  I  hope." 

"But  I  don't  understand  why  this  should  be 
so — why  you  should  haughtily  refuse  our  friend- 
ship." 

"You  don't  understand  it  now,  Lilla;  but 
you  will  one  day,  and  you  will  feel  glad — " 

"  I  am  very  unhappy." 

There  was  a  calm,  clear  sincerity  in  the 
way  she  spoke  these  words  which  was  infinitely 
touching.  Was  it  not  likewise  infinitely  tempt- 
ing ?  Let  those  who,  like  me,  yet  young,  have 
been  cast  away  prematurely  from  love,  and  have 
long  felt  compelled  to  believe  that  supreme  hu- 
man joy  cut  off  from  them  forever — let  them 
suddenly  be  placed  face  to  face  with  a  beauti- 
ful, pure,  and  tender  girl,  and  see  the  expres- 
sion I  saw  trembling  on  her  lips  and  sparkling 
in  tears  on  her  eyelids,  and  say  if  it  was  nothing 
to  stand  firmly  back,  and  leave  her,  as  I  did. 
When  for  my  sins  I  am  arraigned  hereafter, 
as  good  people  tell  us  we  shall  be,  before  some 
high  celestial  bar,  I  hope  I  shall  be  able  to 
plead  that  one  effort  as  a  sacrifice  in  mitiga- 
tion of  the  heavenly  judgment. 

"I  am  very  unhappy,"  she  said.  "And  now 
that  you  have  spoken  thus,  you  have  made  me 
think  for  the  first  time  that  I  have  been  doing 
wrong.  I  hoped  to  have  brought  all  my  people 
together,  and  healed  the  quarrels  and  dislikes 
which  are  so  sad  and  sinful  in  a  family ;  and  I 
hoped  to  have  made  papa  and  you  know  each 
other  and  love  each  other — and  he  could  appre- 
ciate you — and  to  have  made  much  happiness ; 
and  now  I  only  feel  ashamed,  as  if  I  had  been 
doing  something  secret  and  wrong ;  and  you 
tell  me  we  must  not  be  friends  any  more.  I 
have  had  no  friends  before ;  the  people  we  know 
are  formal  and  hard,  and  only  care  for  politics 
and  money ;  and  I  don't  care  for  their  society, 
and  I  can  not  school  my  feelings  into  their  way. 
But  what  is  right,  Mr.  Temple,  we  must  do ; 
and  I  think  only  the  more  of  your  goodness, 
and  am  all  the  more  sorry,  because  you  have 
told  me  what  I  ought  to  do.  Good-by ! " 

She  spoke  this  in  a  tremulous  voice  that  vi- 
brated musically  and  sadly  in  my.  ears,  as  in- 
deed it  vibrates  there  now.  There  was  a  look 
of  profound  regret  and  profound  resignation  on 
her  face,  which  to  my  eyes,  unaccustomed  to 
see  men  and  women  obey  aught  but  their  mere 
impulses,  good  or  bad,  seemed  saint-like,  heav- 
en-like. Even  then,  I  think  I  only  felt  the  more 
leeply  how  little  such  a  nature  could  in  the  end 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


119 


have  blended  ijgith  mine ;  how  imperative  and 
sacred  was  the  duty  which  divided  us  in  time. 
I  could  have  wished  that  death  awaited  me  in 
five  minutes ;  but  I  did  not  flinch.  I  did  not 
say  one  tender  word,  which  might  have  reck- 
lessly unsealed  the  fountains  of  emotion  in  that 
sweet  and  loving  nature. 

"  Good-by,  Mr.  Temple."  She  put  her  hand 
in  mine.  I  pressed  it  reverently,  rather  than 
warmly. 

"Good-by,  Miss  Lyndon." 

There  was  a  pause ;  neither  spoke ;  and  then 
we  separated. 

I  turned  and  gazed  after  her.  Her  tall, 
light,  slender  figure  looked  exquisitely  grace- 
ful as  she  passed  under  the  shadow  of  the  trees, 
and  over  the  soft  green  turf.  I  see  her  still  as 
I  look  back  in  memory ;  I  see  her  figure  pass- 
ing under  the  trees.  I  see  the  whole  scene ; 
the  grass,  the  foliage,  the  sunlight,  the  grace- 
ful, tender,  true-hearted  girl,  who  would  have 
loved  me. 

Her  handkerchief  had  fallen,  and  lay  on  the 
grass.  I  took  up  the  dainty  little  morsel  of 
snowy  cambric,  and  saw  her  initials  in  the  cor- 
ner. I  thrust  it  into  my  breast :  I  would  keep 
it  forever !  To  what  purpose  ?  It  is  not  mine ; 
what  have  I  to  do  with  relics  a»d  memorials  of 
Lilla  Lyndon  ?  I  ran  after  iiejfvvith  it.  She 
turned  round  quickly  when  dK  heard  the  foot- 
steps behind  her. 

"  Your  handkerchief,  Lilla — you  dropped  it ; 
that  is  all.  Good-by." 

She  smiled  a  faint  acknowledgment ;  but, 
though  her  veil  was  down,  I  could  see  that  her 
eyes  were  swimming  in  tears.  She  did  not 
speak  a  word ;  and  I  turned  and  went  my  way, 
not  looking  back  any  more,  for  I  knew  that  the 
angel  who  had  perchance  been  a  moment  under 
my  tent  had  departed  from  it. 

I  went  back  to  the  side  of  the  little  basin, 
and  sat  for  a  while  in  the  chair  where  she  had 
sat ;  and  I  leaned  my  chin  upon  my  hand,  and 
looked  vacuously  at  the  rippling  water.  I  have 
obeyed  you,  Christina,  I  thought ;  I  have  made 
this  sacrifice.  Heaven  knows  how  little  of  it 
was  made  for  Heaven !  Would  you  ever,  un- 
der any  circumstances,  have  loved  me  as  she 
might  have  done  ?  And  now  all  is  at  an  end ; 
I  have  lost  her  !  What  remains  ? 

I  believe  old-fashioned  theologians  used  to 
say  that  man  had  always  an  angel  on  one  side 
of  him  and  a  devil  on  the  other.  My  angel,  as 
I  have  said,  had  left  me  ;  but  I  suddenly  found 
that  I  was  favored  with  the  other  companion- 
ship. 

I  heard  footsteps  near  me.  I  did  not  look 
up ;  what  did  it  matter  to  me  who  came  or  went 
in  Kensington  Gardens  now  ?  But  a  mellow 
rolling  chuckle,  to  which  my  ears  had  lately 
been  happily  a  stranger,  made  me  start. 

"Ill  met  by  sunlight,  proud  Temple,"  said 
the  voice  I  knew  only  too  well.  And  Stephen 
Lyndon  the  outcast — Lyndon  of  the  wig — came 
stamping  and  rolling  up.  I  think  I  have  al- 
ready said  that  his  gait  often  reminded  me  of  a 


dwarf  Samuel  Johnson.  He  had  a  habit,  too, 
of  rolling  his  jocular  sayings  about  on  his  lips, 
which  made  the  odd  resemblance  still  odder. 
It  was  some  time  since  I  had  seen  him,  although 
I  knew  of  late  that  he  too  used  to  walk  in  Ken- 
sington Gardens.  He  was  neatly  and  quietly 
dressed  now,  and,  in  fact,  looked  rather  as  if 
he  were  going  in  for  calm  respectability.  His 
wig  was  less  curly,  his  hat  was  not  set  so  jantily 
on  the  side  of  his  head,  and  he  was  not  smoking 
a  cigar ;  he  wore  black  cotton  or  thread  gloves ; 
he  had  a  bundle  of  seals  pendent  from  his  old- 
fashioned  fob.  Virtuous  mediocrity,  clearly; 
heavy  uncle,  -of  limited  means,  reconciled  with 
Providence. 

I  looked  at  him  thus  curiously  because  I  had 
come  to  know  that  one  must  always  study  his 
"get-up"  a  little  in  order  to  understand  his 
mood  of  mind  or  purpose.  Taking  all  things 
together,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had 
watched  and  waited  for  me  deliberately,  and 
that  he  had  something  to  say.  I  did  not  seek 
to  avoid  him,  or  get  rid  of  him.  Why  should 
I?  Lilla  Lyndon  held  him  good  enough  to 
speak  to  her;  how  should  I  think  myself  low- 
ered by  his  companionship  ?  I  resolved  even 
to  do  my  best  to  be  courteous  and  civil  to  him. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Lyndon?  We  have 
not  met  for  some  time." 

"No,  Temple — a  pity  too;  such  congenial 
spirits,  and  now,  I  may  almost  say,  companions 
in  a  common  enterprise.  We  have  not  met 
lately;  but  I  have  seen  you — I  have  seen  you 
when  you  didn't  think  it,  wild  youth.  You're 
looking  well,  Temple,  as  far  as  flesh  and  world- 
ly evidences  go ;  you  are  growing  stout,  I  think, 
and  your  get-up  is  rather  different  from  what  it 
was  when  I  first  had  the  honor  of  meeting  you 
— let  us  say  half  a  century  ago.  Ah,  Fortune 
has  been  kind  to  you.  You  are  no  longer  the 
wretched  poor  devil  you  used  to  be.  I  have 
heard  of  your  success,  Temple,  with  a  sort  of 
pride,  not  unmingled  with  surprise,  let  me  say ; 
for,  between  ourselves,  I  never  thought  there 
was  much  in  you  except  voice.  I  told  Madame 
Reichstein  so  the  other  day." 

"Indeed!  You  have  seen  Madame  Reich- 
stein  ?" 

"  I  did  myself  the  pleasure  of  calling  on  her ; 
we  are  old  friends.  She  does  not  forget  old 
friends,  or  turn  up  her  nose  at  them,  as  certain 
smaller  people  do,  to  whom  we  will  not  allude 
more  particularly.  Now,  she  is  a  great  suc- 
cess :  there  is  genius,  if  you  want  it,  not  mere 
lungs.  Yes,  I  disparaged  you,  Temple,  to  her ; 
I  said  I  thought  there  was  nothing  in  you. 
You  are  not  offended  ?" 

"Not  in  the  least." 

"I  thought  you  wouldn't.  Between  old 
friends,  you  know ;  and  I  never  concealed  from 
you  my  honest  opinion.  You  see,  Temple,  7 
am  an  artist  in  soul.  I  know  real  musical  gen- 
ius when  I  find  it — rather !  Yes,  I  told  her  so." 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  she  didn't  seem  to  like  it.  She  con- 
veyed to  me — delicately,  of  course,  for  she  is 


120 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


quite  a  lady  in  manner,  that  let  me  tell  you — 
she  conveyed  to  me  that  she  thought  me  an  im 
pertinent  old  idiot.     Of  course  I  didn't  mind 
She  is  prejudiced  in  your  favor ;  any  body  can 
see  that  with  half  an  eye.     May  I  sit  beside 
you  a  moment  ?" 

"  Certainly ;  but  I  am  going  immediately." 
"  I  have  a  word  or  two  to  say  first ;  if  you 
like,  I'll  walk  your  way.  Bather  not  ?  Well 
then,  let  us  just  sit  here  for  a  few  moments 
After  all,  Temple,  what  lovely  spots  there  are 
in  London !  What  could  be  a  more  charming 
bit  of  woodland  than  this  ?  it  might  make  a 
painter  of  any  body.  To  know  London,  Tem- 
ple, is,  if  I  may  paraphrase  a  famous  saying, 
of  which  I  dare  say  you  never  heard,  a  liberal 
education.  Where  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  or 
the  Thiergarten,  or  the  Prater,  is  there  so  de- 
licious and  so  natural  a  glimpse  as  that?" 

He  pointed  with  his  cane  down  the  glade  into 
which  Lilla  Lyndon  had  just  disappeared. 

"I  saw  you  studying  that  vista  just  now, 
Temple.  Evidently  you  have  an  artist's  eye, 
although  I  confess  I  never  suspected  you  of  any 
thing  of  the  kind  before ;  but  you  looked  down 
that  vista  as  only  an  artist  or  a  lover  could." 

* '  I  like  Kensington  Gardens  very  much.  But 
you  were  saying,  I  think,  that  there  was  some- 
thing particular  you  wished  to  speak  of." 

"To  be  sure,  so  I  was;  I  approached  you 
for  the  purpose.  But  I  am  such  a  lover  of  nat- 
ural beauty  that  it  makes  me  forget  every  thing, 
especially  business.  Do  you  know,  Temple,  I 
don't  believe  a  man  can  be  really  religious  who 
does  not  appreciate  the  beauty  of  that  sunbeam 
on  the  water,  and  that  shadow  on  the  grass.  I 
don't  think  such  a  man  ought  to  expect  to  go 
to  heaven.  Do  you  ?" 

"I  don't  think  some  of  us  ought  to  expect 
to  go  to  heaven  in  any  case.  But  you  had 
something  special  to  say  ?" 

"  Hard  and  practical  as  ever !  Ah,  Temple, 
I  fear  there  is  in  you  very  little  of  the  true  art- 
ist nature.  Well,  it  makes  my  present  business 
the  more  easy ;  I  might  perhaps  find  it  hard  to 
open  it  gracefully  to  a  poet.  To  the  business, 
then.  The  fact  is,  Temple" — and  here  he  sud- 
denly abandoned  the  tone  of  rhodomontade 
blended  with  banter  which  was  so  common 
with  him,  and  assumed  a  cool,  dry,  matter-of- 
fact  way — "  the  fact  is,  I  see  the  whole  game ; 
I  have  seen  it  all  along." 

"Indeed!  May  I  ask  what  game — whose 
game  ?" 

"No  nonsense,  Temple;  it  won't  do  with 
me  ;  I  am  quite  up  to  the  whole  thing.  We 
have  been  rowing  in  the  same  boat  this  some 
time,  although,  if  you  will  pardon  me  for  ap- 
plying such  a  dreadful  old  joke,  not  perhaps 
with  the  same  sculls.  She  is  a  charming  girl, 
Temple,  and  we're  both  very  fond  of  her,  in  a 
different  sort  of  way ;  and  she  will  have  a  good 
fortune  of  her  own,  even  in  the  lamentable 
event  of  her  displeasing  her  respectable  and 
virtuous  father,  and  so  causing  him  to  leave  all 
his  money  to  her  step-sisters.  Her  mother  took 


good  care  of  her  in  that  way^    Ah,  Temple, 
ingenuous  youth,  what  a  sharp  fellow  you  are !" 
I  got  up  to  go  away,  disgusted  beyond  en- 
durance. 

"Look  here,  Mr. Temple ;  I  want  to  talk  to 
you  fairly  and  like  a  man.  Do  drop  your  rant- 
ipole  high-tragedy  airs  for  once.  You  have  been 
meeting  my  charming  and  innocent  little  niece 
here  day  after  day ;  so  have  I.  It  goes  to  my 
heart  sometimes  to  take  the  good  little  girl's 
money ;  but  I  do  take  it.  She  doesn't  want  it, 
you  know — and  we  do.  Now  your  game  is  just 
the  same,  only  bigger  and  completer :  you  mean 
to  marry  the  girl,  and  have  her  fortune." 

"It  is  utterly  and  ridiculously  false;  and 
were  not  anger  thrown  away  on  such  a  creat- 
ure as  you — " 

"You  would  say  something  dreadful,  no 
d<3ubt.  Don't ;  anger  is  thrown  away  on  me. 
Glad  you  have  the  good  sense  to  see  that. 
This  is  the  point,  then.  I  don't  object  to  your 
marrying  my  niece  ;  you  have  my  consent — on 
conditions.  I  detest  Goodboy  so",  that,  only  for 
the  sake  of  the  dear  creature  herself,  I  would 
fall  on  my  knees  and  thank  Heaven  if  she  mar- 
ried a  pork-butcher's  boy  or  a  chimney-sweep, 
just  to  spite  him  and  wring  his  gutta-percha 
leart :  I  would,  by  the  Almighty  !  Now,  then, 
Temple,  to  business.  If  you  promise  to  make 
t  worth  my  while,  I'll  help  you  in  this.  You 
shall  have  my  help  and  countenance — what  you 

"1.  I  want  a  modest  income,  made  safe  to 
me  and  beyond  any  confounded  creature's  con- 
:rol.  Are  you  prepared  to  enter  into  terms  ? 
Look  here,  Temple.  Beauty,  virtue,  and  plen- 
y  of  money,  with  a  venerable  uncle's  blessing ! 
all  at  your  command.  It  is  simply  a  question 
>f  how  much  you  are  disposed  to  stand  for  my 
o-operation.  If  I  am  not  for  you,  Temple,  I 
m  against  you.  Make  terms  with  me,  or  I 
;o  over  to  the  enemy ;  and  Goodboy  shall  know 
ill." 

"Now,  Mr.  Lyndon,  I  have  listened  to  you, 
!  think,  with  great  patience  and  self-control. 
Pray  listen  to  me.  It  is  not,  I  suppose,  any 
onger  your  fault  that  you  can  not  understand 
vhat  good  intentions  and  honor  and  honesty 
mean ;  so  I  shall  not  waste  any  words  to  that 
urpose  on  you." 

"  That's  a  good  fellow.  I  do  detest  virtu- 
us  indignation  in  men ;  especially  when  com- 
ined  with  eloquence." 

"I  shall  only  say,  you  don't  understand  me. 
ro  and  do  your  best ;  do  any  thing  you  please. 
Say  any  thing  you  can  to  pain  and  grieve  that 
ne  sweet  and  noble  nature  which  has  stooped 
o  you  and  done  you  kindness.  Her  you  may 
grieve,  but  you  can  not  injure.  Play  the  spy, 
he  liar,  the  calumniator,  the  swindler,  as  you 
ike ;  but  don't  talk  of  terms  or  rogue's  baV- 
gains  with  me.  I  would  not  buy  your  silence 
,t  the  cost  of  a  sixpence.  I  Avould  not  accept 
ny  conditions  of  yours  to  save  my  life — and 
lers." 

"That  is  your  answer?" 

"That  is  my  answer." 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


121 


"Now  look  here,  Temple,  my  good  fellow; 
another  man  might  be  offended,  but  I  don't 
mind  any  of  your  nonsense.  Just  don't  be  in 
a  hurry — don't  be  a  fool.  Really,  Temple,  I 
want  to  settle  down  in  life,  and  live  quietly  and 
pleasantly.  I  begin  to  tire  of  racketing  about, 
and  living  on  chance,  and  billiards,  and  soft- 
headed spoons,  and  all  that.  I  am  getting, 
you  see,  a  little  into  years,  though  people  tell 
me  I'm  looking  wonderfully  well  yet.  Can't 
we  manage  this  thing  nicely  ?  You  want  that 
charming  girl  —  why  not,  old  boy?  —  and,  of 
course,  her  money.  I  want  just  a  neat  little 
annual  sum — a  little  pension — just  to  keep  me 
from  being  a  trouble  to  my  friends,  and  so 
forth.  I'll  undertake,  on  very  reasonable  con- 
ditions, not  to  trouble  even  Goodboy — whom 
may  a  truly  righteous  Providence  confound  ! — 
and,  in  fact,  to  take  myself  off  to  Nice,  or  some 
pleasant,  sunny  place — I  love  warm  climates — 
and  never  come  back  any  more.  Now  do,  like 
a  good  fellow,  just  think  of  that.  Do  you  know 
— don't  laugh  at  me ! — I  positively  would  rath- 
er please  that  dear  girl  than  not ;  and  if  my 
turning  respectable  on  a  decent  pension,  and 
taking  myself  off,  would  do  it,  I  really  am  open 
to  terms.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  am  pre- 
pared to  make  any  downright  sacrifice  for  my 
niece — of  course,  between  men  of  the  world, 
that  sort  of  thing  is  nonsense;  but  I  would 
rather  serve  her  than  not.  I  should  like  to 
live  quietly  at  Nice  ;  and  upon  my  word,  if  my 
wife  would  only  oblige  me  and  show  her  con- 
jugal devotion  by  departing  to  that  world  where 
all  virtuous  persons  ought  to  wish  to  go,  I  don't 
know  but  that  I  should  entertain  the  idea  of 
marrying  some  nice  little  girl  myself.  There 
are,  nice  little  girls,  Sir,  let  me  tell  you,  who 
would  not  be  entirely  averse  to  such  a  notion. 
Now  think  of  all  this,  Temple.  Think  of  me ! 
Think  of  what  a  thing  it  is  to  do  a  good  action, 
and  to  play  your  own  game  and  torment  your 
enemies  at  the  same  time." 

He  spoke,  in  quite  a  solemn  and  pathetic 
tone. 

"I  have  given  you  my  answer.  Let  me 
pass.  I  don't  want  to  speak  more  harshly,  or 
to  lose  my  temper." 

"Confound  it!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  puz- 
zled air ;  "  I  can't  understand  this  at  all.  By 
Jove !  the  fellow  must  be  privately  married  to 
her  already,  or  he  never  would  talk  in  this 
cock-a-hoop  and  lofty  kind  of  way.  There  is 
an  alarming  air  of  security  and  confidence  about 
him. — Now,  Temple,  fair  is  fair,  you  know.  I 
always  thought  you  too  honorable  for  that  sort 
of  thing.  Do  speak  out  like  a  man,  and  tell 
me  what  is  your  game.  Imitate  my  candor, 
and  speak  out." 

I  pushed  past  him ;  he  caught  me  by  both 
arms,  and  looked  earnestly,  scrutinizingly  into 
my  face.  I  could  not  get  away  from  him' with- 
out an  exertion  of  positive  violence.  His  grip 
was  wonderfully  strong;  and  there  were  some 
groups  of  people  scattered  here  and  there  suffi- 
ciently near  to  make  me  feel  anxious  to  avoid 


|  any  scene.  I  stood  there  and  allowed  him  to 
•  study  my  face.  It  was  rather  a  ludicrous  busi- 
ness. With  his  twinkling  beady  black  eyes  he 
peered  up  into  my  face,  standing  on  his  toes 
meanwhile,  and  his  head  still  hardly  touching 
my  chin.  His  sensuous,  expressive  lips  were 
working  unceasingly  with  eagerness  and  curi- 
osity; and  in  his  whole  expression,  attitude, 
manner,  eyes,  there  was  a  strange  blending  of 
the  cunning  of  a  detective  and  the  wildness  of 
a  lunatic.  Far  back  in  the  depths  of*  those 
keen,  twinkling  eyes  there  was  surely,  one  might 
think,  the  reflection  of  a  madman's  cell.  The 
first  impression,  as  I  looked  at  him,  was  a  mere 
sense  of  the  ridiculous,  and  I  could  hardly  re- 
press a  laugh  ;  the  next  was  a  sense  of  the  hor- 
rible, and  I  found  it  not  easy  to  keep  down  a 
shudder.  It  would  not  be  pleasant  to  wake 
some  night  and  find  such  a  grip  on  one's  arms, 
and  see  such  -eyes  peering  into  one's  face. 

When  he  had  scrutinized  me  apparently  to 
his  satisfaction  his  countenance  underwent  a 
sudden  and  complete  change  of  expression. 
Curiosity  and  eagerness  had  now  given  way  to 
mere  contempt.  He  literally  flung  himself  off 
from  me. 

"Pah ! "  he  exclaimed  ;  " the  idiot  has  done 
nothing  of  the  sort.  His  enemy's  daughter  is 
safe  enough  so  far  as  he  is  concerned.  He 
walks  in  Kensington  Gardens  pour  des  prunes." 

He  put  his  hat  a  little  more  jantily  than  be- 
fore on  the  side  of  his  head,  nodded  an  ironical 
farewell,  and  I  saw  him  a  moment  after  open- 
ing up  a  conversation  with  a  smart  nurse-maid 
who  was  in  charge  of  two  obstinate  children. 

I  went  my  way,  not  rejoicing,  Heaven  knows, 
but  at  least  relieved. 


.       CHAPTER  XXVI.     . 

LILLA  GONE. 

I  HAVE  never  greatly  troubled  myself  to 
study  human  character.  I  have  especially  rath- 
er avoided  studying  my  own.  I  do  not  know 
much  about  the  springs  of  human  action.  I 
am  neither  a  moral  philosopher  nor  a  psychol- 
ogist, therefore  I  can  not  pretend  to  explain  the 
manner  in  which  the  separation  I  have  described 
in  the  last  chapter  affected  my  character  and 
my  ways.  But  I  know  how  it  did  actually  af- 
fect me,  and  I  record  the  fact.  WTith  the  part- 
ing from  Lilla  Lyndon  there  fell  away  from  me 
all  inclination  for  the  kind  of  indolent  distrac- 
tion in  which  last  year  I  had  been  seeking  con- 
solation only  too  often.  I  despised  and  detest- 
ed it  all ;  I  shook  it  completely  off  me  in  a  mo- 
ment. I  knew  myself  redeemed  from  it,  and  I 
knew  that  the  whole  change  was  made  in  me,  a 
man  of  maturing  years,  by  the  sad  smile  of  a  girl. 

I  knew  a  man  once  who  told  me,  in  one  of 
those  rare  bursts  of  confidence  in  which  gener- 
ous and  reserved  men  sometimes  indulge,  how 
he  had  lived  for  ten  long  years  of  the  most  try- 
ing part  of  existence,  defiant  of  temptation,  on 


122 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


the  memory  of  a  kiss.  He  was  not  a  senti 
mental  or  a  weakly  man  ;  he  did  not  pretend  to 
be  what  pious  people  call  a  good  man.  I  never 
knew  whether  he  believed  in  any  particular 
theological  dogmas.  He  was  a  man  of  strong, 
passionate  emotions ;  a  man  to  go  widely  astray 
under  certain  circumstances ;  a  man  who  had 
gone  astray.  A  good,  pure  woman  loved  him 
and  trusted  him ;  he  had  no  money,  and  he 
went  away  to  the  United  States  to  look  for 
some,  that  they  might  be  married.  When  he 
was  going,  she  herself,  spontaneously  and  for 
the  first  time,  put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and 
kissed  him.  He  did  not  make  any  formal  re- 
solve that  his  lips,  like  those  of  Coriolanus, 
should  virgin  it  till  he  should  return  and  give 
back  that  kiss  again,  for  he  was  not  one  of  your 
deliberately  good  and  Spartan  men  at  all.  But 
he  told  me  that  he  never  knew  temptation  in 
the  mean  time  which  could  for  a  moment  efface 
the  memory  of  that  kiss.  He  lived  on  the  mem- 
ory, pure  as  a  King  Arthur,  for  ten  years  ;  and 
then  he  came  back,  and  they  were  married. 

Perhaps  such  things  are  not  so  uncommon 
as  we  think ;  only  that  few  men  will  venture  to 
confess  purity.  At  all  events,  I  believe  it  to 
have  been  true  in  this  case.  I  could  under- 
stand it  the  better,  knowing  what  impression 
the  parting  from  Lilla  Lyndon  made  on  me.  I 
think  I  could  have  carried  a  kiss  from  her  un- 
stained into  the  darkness  of  the  grave. 

I  avoided  Christina,  and  indeed  every  body, 
as  much  as  I  could.  I  observed  that  Mr.  Lyn- 
don was  growing  more  and  more  attentive  to 
her;  and  this  fact  alone,  were  there  no  other 
reason,  would  have  kept  me  from  her. 

Her  husband  suddenly  reappeared  in  town. 
During  his  stay  of  last  season  he  and  I  had 
taken  a  strong  liking  for  each  other;  and  now 
that  he  returned  he  came  to  see  me  at  once.  I 
happened  to  be  out  when  he  called  ;  and  as  his 
card  bore  no  address,  I  resolved  to  go  to  Jer- 
myn  Street,  see  Christina,  if  she  should  happen 
to  be  alone,  and  learn  where  he  was  to  be  found. 
When  I  got  to  her  house,  however,  I  heard  that 
she  had  visitors  ;  and  knowing  who  one  of  them 
was,  for  I  saw  his  carriage  at  the  door,  I  would 
not  be  of  the  number.  So  I  turned  away. 

This  was  only  three  or  four  days  after  the 
meeting  and  parting  described  in  the  last  chap- 
ter. I  left  the  door  of  Christina's  lodgings  to 
avoid  one  Lyndon,  in  order  to  meet  another.  It 
was  with  a  sense  of  detestation  that  I  suddenly 
found  myself  confronted  on  the  Jermyn  Street 
pavement  by  my  odious  Stephen  Lyndon.  What 
on  earth — what  out  of  the  lower  world — brought 
him  there?  As  I  turned  my  eyes  away  from 
Christina's  house  I  nearly  run  against  him  or 
over  him. 

"I  have  been  signaling  you,"  he  said,  "from 
across  the  street;  but  either  you  couldn't  or 
wouldn't  see.  Only  a  word  or  two  now.  I 
sha'n't  detain  you.  Our  society  now  isn't  pleas- 
ant to  each  other.  But  I  want  to  know  whether 
you  have  reconsidered  what  we  spoke  of  the 
*  other  day  in  Kensington  Gardens  ?" 


"  No,  I  haven't.  There's  nothing  to  recon- 
sider— let  me  pass !" 

"Isn't  there?  Perhaps!  I  have  news  for 
you.  Goodboy  is  on  the  scent ;  and  he  has  or- 
dered her  off." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Thought  I  could  arouse  your  attention! 
He  has  taken  her  or  sent  her  away  out  of  Lon- 
don. Carried  her  away  from  me  as  well  as 
from  you!  I  didn't  count  on  that.  Twas  I 
gave  him  the  hint — I  told  you  I  would ;  but  I 
never  expected  that  he  would  do  what  he  has 
done — absolutely  prohibit  the  poor  little  thing 
from  holding  any  communication  with  me — with 
me,  her  uncle,  who  loves  her !  Yes,  by  Jupiter 
Ammon,  I  do  love  her!  Forty  thousand  Good- 
boys  could  not,  with  all  their  quantity  of  love, 
make  up  my  sum !  It's  all  your  fault,  with 
your  confounded  scruples  and  nonsense.  If 
you^had  listened  to  reason,  you  and  I  could 
have  managed  this  splendidly.  Now  she  is  gone 
from  both  of  us." 

"How  do  you  know?"  I  inquired,  ashamed 
of  myself  for  asking  the  question. 

""  She  wrote  me  a  line,  poor  little  innocent — 
the  last,  she  says;  and  inclosed  me  a  trifle. 
It's  the  spirit  of  the  gift  one  values,  Temple,  not 
the  paltry  amount ;  and  she  hopes  all  may  yet 
be  reconciled ;  and  she  will  never  fail  to  work 
for  that  sacred  end — and  that  kind  of  thing, 
you  know.  By  Jove,  Temple,  what  a  little  an- 
gel in  petticoats  she  is  !  I  have  no  doubt  she'll 
be  a  ministering  angel,  old  boy,  when  you  and 
I  lie  howling ;  though  I,  God  knows,  was  made 
for  goodness  and  religion,  and  am  a  man  more 
sinned  against  than  sinning." 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  of  me?" 

"Simply  to  ask,  are  you  going  to  stand  this?" 

"  Stand  what  ?"      . 

"That  fellow  packing  away  that  sweet,  lov- 
ing girl  to  some  abominable  hole  in  the  coun- 
try." 

"I  suppose  Mr.  Lyndon  has  a  right  to  the 
care  of  his  daughter.  Some  fathers  do  care 
for  their  children.  I  have  no  claim  on  Miss 
Lyndon." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  what,  if  y"ou're  going  to 
stand  it,  I'm  not.  I'll  spoil  them  all ;  and  that's 
why  I'm  here.  Temple,  I  wish  you  no  harm — 
I  don't  indeed :  in  fact,  I  rather  respect  you ; 
and  I  think  in  my  anger  yesterday  I  did  you 
njury  to  no  purpose,  and  myself  too.  On  the 
whole,  I  like  your  chivalric  nonsense ;  there  is 
a  far-off  flavor  of  youth  and  poetry,  and  that 
sort  of  rot  about  it,  which  refreshes  me  like  a 
scent  of  the  distant  sea.  If  I  had  a  son,  Tem- 
ple, I  think  I  shouldn't  be  very  sorry  if  he  act- 
ed as  you  did ;  for,  by  the  good  God,  that  girl 
would  run  away  with  you  to-morrow  if  you 
asked  her !  Well,  then,  I  don't  want  to  injure 
you;  but  I'll  crush  them." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?" 

"My  hated  Eteocles  Lyndon,  or  Polynices 
iyndon,  whichever  you  please ;  and  the  woman 
le  is  following,  and  my  old  friend  and  colleague, 
he  Carbonaro  vonder.  I'm  on  the  track  of 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


123 


something,  Temple;  and  trust  me,  I'll  run  it 
down.  They  are  making  use  of  Goodboy :  he 
fancies  he  is  making  use  of  them.  /  know 
what  it's  all  about.  Vive  la  Republique  sociale 
et  democratique.  Viva  Mazzini !  Piff,  paff !" 

He  nodded  his  head,  jerked,  and  gesticulated 
vehemently,  like  a  Neapolitan  going  mad. 

"I  don't  understand  you  at  all." 

"  Dare  say  you  don't !  Be  innocent  of  the 
knowledge,  dearest  chuck  ;  keep  yourself  out 
of  their  schemes,  Temple,  and  then  I  sha'n't 
have  to  harm  you.  I  am  in  the  swim  already, 
I  promise  you.  Good-by.  You  don't  under- 
stand how  Goodboy  came  to  be  an  Italian  con- 
spirator, then,  don't  you?  Hum,  ha!  Did 
you  ever  read  Churchill  ? — 

'By  my  life, 
This  Davies  hath  a  mighty  pretty  wife!'" 

He  winked  his  beady  old  eyes,  then  again 
indulged  in  a  variety  of  gesticulations  admira- 
bly imitated  from  the  Italian,  made  a  panto- 
mimic gesture  expressive  of  the  rapid  and  fre- 
quent use  of  the  stiletto,  exploded  into  his  old 
familiar  rolling  chuckle,  raised  his  hat  to  me, 
and  turned  away. 

Looking  back  a  moment  after  I  saw  him 
standing  on  the  steps  of  Cox's  hotel  engaged  in 
conversation  with  a  waiter,  and  smoking  a  ci- 
gar with  as  lordly  an  air  as  if  the  whole  house 
and  the  street  too  belonged  to  him. 

I  thought  little  of  his  hints  and  threats :  he 
was  always  vowing  and  menacing,  and  nothing 
ever  came  of  it ;  an  unconquerable  levity  and 
fickleness  always  seemed  to  interpose  happily 
between  him  and  any  serious  deed  of  harm  to 
others;  nor  did  I  see  what  possible  danger 
could  come  on  Christina  and  her  husband 
through  his  influence.  So  little  belief  had  I  in 
any  thing  he  said  that  I  did  not  even  place  un- 
reserved faith  in  his  story  about  Lilla  Lyndon, 
although  that,  Heaven  knows,  looked  likely 
.enough;  at  least,  I  earnestly  hoped  it  might 
not  prove  true.  If  I  had  been  the  means  of 
creating  a  discord  between  that  girl  and  her 
father  I  had  surely  reason  to  blame  and  hate 
myself.  I  will  find  out  if  it  be  true,  and  if  it 
be  I  will  at  least  do  practical  penanc*  in  this 
way :  I  will  go  to  Mr.  Lyndon,  and  humble  my- 
self before  him — him  whom  I  detest — and  speak 
to  him  as  one  man  of  honor  speaks  to  another, 
and  pledge  him  my  earnest,  solemn  word  that 
I  will  never  see  his  daughter  again ;  and  tell 
him  that  I  am  resolved  on  leaving  this  country, 
not  to  return.  This  must  satisfy  him :  he  shall 
be  satisfied,  if  any  pledge,  if  any  humiliation  of 
mine  can  do  it.  I  will  not  be  the  cause  of 
estrangement  between  him  and  his  daughter; 
I  will  not  have  that  great  sin  upon  my  soul.  If 
I  have  done  wrong,  I  can  at  least  endeavor  to 
undo  it,  and  to  do  penance  for  it, 

I  will  do  it  this  moment. 

I  hailed  a  hansom,  and  drove  to  Connaught 
Place. 

"Is  Miss  Lilla  Lyndon  in  town?"  I  asked 
of  the  footman  who  opened  the  door. 


"  Miss  Lilla  have  left  town,"  was  the  answer. 

"To-day?" 

"To-day,  Sir." 

The  man's  expression  was,  I  thought,  con- 
clusive. 

"Is  Mr.  Lyndon  at  home?" 

"Mr.  Lyndon  is  at  home,  Sir;  but  he  have 
give  instructions  he  is  engaged  particular." 

"  Will  you  give  him  that  card,  and  say  I  have 
the  strongest  reasons  for  wishing  to  speak  to 
him  for  five  minutes  ?  Say  I  would  not  dis- 
turb him,  but  that  I  have  the  strongest  reasons." 

The  man  asked  me  to  step  into  the  hall  while 
he  took  the  card  to  his  master.  As  the  reader 
will  remember,  I  had  been  in  this  house  once 
before,  and  I  knew  that  Mr.  Lyndon's  study 
was  only  divided  by  the  wall  from  where  I  stood. 

In  a  moment  I  heard  Mr.  Lyndon  say,  in  a 
loud,  strident  tone,  as  of  one  who  determines 
that  his  words  shall  be  heard  by  those  whom 
they  concern : 

"  I  decline  to  see  Mr.  Temple  !" 

The  man  came  out  and  gave  me  the  mes- 
sage, looking  rather  reluctant  and  abashed,  I 
am  bound  to  say  in  justice  to  him. 

Still  I  was  resolved  that  no  mere  humiliation 
should  deter  me  from  acting  as  I  felt  my- 
self bound  in  honor  and  conscience  to  do.  I 
clenched  my  fingers,  bit  my  lips,  crushed  down 
my  emotions,  and  made  a  new  attempt. 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  say  to  Mr. 
Lyndon  that  a  very  grave  misunderstanding 
may  be  wholly  avoided  if  he  will  see  me  for 
five  minutes?" 

The  man  went  in,  and  I  heard  again,  in  the 
same  tone,  the  same  words : 

"I  decline  to  see  Mr.  Temple!" 

"  I  told  you,"  said  the  servant  when  he  came 
out — and  he  spoke  in  a  half-remonstrating,  half- 
deprecating  kind  of  way— "I  told  you  he  was 
particularly  engaged.  He  always  is  particu- 
larly engaged,  and  can't  see  no  one  at  this  hour, 
just  before  he  goes  to  the  'Ouse." 

The  man  made  this  observation  in  the  purest 
good-nature.  He  wished  to  soften  the  snub  to 
me,  and  to  put  it  on  the  mere  ground  of  his 
master's  intense  occupation.  I  caught  at  the 
suggestion,  however.  I  took  out  my  purse  and 
slipped  a  sovereign  into  his  hand,  rather  glad 
of  any  way  to  testify  my  appreciation  of  his 
good-nature  while  buying  one  more  service  of 
him. 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  disturbed  Mr.  Lyndon," 
I  said  ;  "and  I  ought  to  have  known  that  he  is 
busy  just  now.  Will  you,  however,  kindly  go 
back  again,  and  say  that  if  he  will  name  any 
time  and  place — the  House,  or  Brooks's"  (of 
which  I  knew  he  was  a  member),  "  or  anywhere, 
I  shall  be  only  too  glad  to  wait  on  him,  and  say 
half  a  dozen  words  which  it  is  very  important 
he  should  hear." 

I  don't  know  whether  the  man  could  have 
delivered  this  long  message ;  but  I  think  he  was 
saved  the  trouble.  The  moment  he  opened 
Mr.  Lyndon's  door  I  heard  the  words  : 

"  I 'decline  to  see  Mr.  Temple  now  or  at  any 


124 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


other  time,  any  where.  I  decline  to  hold  any 
kind  of  communication  with  him.  I  am  busy ; 
do  not  disturb  me  any  more.  Give  that  mes- 
sage distinctly,  and  say  there  is  none  other." 

And  this  was  the  end  of  my  resolve  to  hum- 
ble myself,  and  try  to  do  good  !  I  came  away 
with  a  burning  face  and  a  raging  heart.  All 
that  anger  and  hate  and  sense  of  wounded  pride 
could  stir  up  to  embitter  human  nature  was 
working  within  me  just  then.  No  wonder  men 
sold  their  souls  in  the  old  days,  when  there  were 
powerful  bidders  for  them  from  the  infernal 
world — no  wonder  they  sold  their  souls  for  re- 
venge on  some  enemy. 

I  crossed  into  the  Park,  and  was  walking 
slowly  under  the  trees.  Presently  I  heard  a 
quick  step  following  mine,  and  the  rustle  of  a 
dress  came  near  me,  and  an  emphatic  little 
cough  appealed  to  my  attention.  I  might  not 
have  heeded,  but  a  woman's  voice  at  last  said, 
and  apparently  very  much  out  of  breath  too : 

"Oh,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Temple,  Sir!" 
'  I  turned  round,  and  saw  a  pretty,  flushed  lit- 
tle face  near  me — the  face  of  a  well-dressed 
young  woman,  who  had  lady's-maid  printed  in 
every  lineament  of  her  countenance  and  motion 
of  her  limbs.  I  did  not  recognize  her  at  first. 
"  Don't  you  remember  me,  Sir  ?  I  am  Miss 
Lilla's  maid.  Which  master  was  very  angry, 
Sir ;  and  Miss  Lilla  took  on  a  great  deal ;  and 
she  has  gone  with  Miss  Lyndon  (our  eldest 
daughter,  Sir)  to  the  country  for  a  while ;  and 
master's  going  down  soon.  Miss  Lilla  cried  a 
deal,  Sir;  and  master  was  very  cross;  and  I 
came  in  for  my  share  of  it  too.  I  saw  you  in 
the  hall,  Sir,  and  thought  I'd  just  chance  it,  and 
run  across  to  tell  you ;  for  I'm  not  allowed  to 
go  with  her,  Sir.  I  wouldn't  stand  being  talked 
to  by  Miss  Dora  Jane,  and  I've  give  warning ; 
and  I've  brought  you  her  address,  Sir,  written 
on  paper,  which  I  thought  you'd  like  to  'ave." 

She  put  a  paper  into  my  hand,  and  nodded 
knowingly  and  hurried  away.  I  was  taking  out 
my  purse  to  offer  her  something,  but  she  would 
not  wait.  I  do  believe  she  had  run  her  risk  out 
of  the  uttermost  good-nature  and  pure  sympa- 
thy with  what  she  regarded  as  a  touching  love- 
affair  broken  in  upon  by  a  cruel  parent. 


run  this  risk  ;  I  will  not  thus  tempt  myself  and 
peril  her  happiness.  I  have  resolved  to  save 
her  from  the  futile  vexation  my  acquaintance 
might  bring  on  her ;  and  I  will  not  allow  my- 
self even  the  chance  of  breaking  my  resolve. 
In  God's  name,  then — " 

Without  reading  what  was  written  on  the 
paper,  without  even  looking  at  the  handwrit- 
ing— I  did  not  dare  to  trust  myself— I  tore  the 
thing  into  a  hundred  minute  fragments,  and 
flung  them  on  the  face  of  the  pool.  The  little 
waves  tossed  them,  the  little  breezes  played 
with  them,  some  greedy  wild-fowl  gobbled  up 
a  few  of  them.  I  left  the  scraps  that  still  float- 
ed to  sink  or  decompose;  no  eye  could  read 
their  secret. 


I  carried  the  piece  of  paper  mechanically  in 
my  hand  a  long  way— until  I  had,  in  fact,  got 
into  Kensington  Gardens,  and  reached  the  mar- 
gin of  the  pond.  I  did  not  open  and  look  at  it 
then.  What  right  had  I  to  know  any  thing  of 
the  movements  of  Mr.  Lyndon's  daughter  ?  I 
was  not  even  her  lover,  as  the  good-natured  girl 
who  had  left  me  evidently  imagined.  Why 
should  I  expose  myself  to  the  temptation  of 
renewing  an  acquaintance  which,  for  her  sake 
and  for  the  sake  of  honor  and  honesty,  ought 
never  to  be  reopened  ?  The  very  bitterness  of 
the  anger  and  resentment  I  felt  toward  her  fa- 
ther gave  but  another  reason  why  I  should  not 
trust  myself  with  any  chance  of  revenging  my 
own  wounded  pride  by  meanly  tampering  with 
his  daughter's  love. 

"No,"  I  said  to  myself,  firmly,  "I  will  not 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE    CONSPIRATOR. 

SALARIS  and  I  gradually  became  close  friends. 
Habitually  we  were  both  silent  men,  and  there 
s  no  sociability  like  the  free  companionship  of 
silent  men.     We  often  sat  for  hours  together 
n  my  lodgings  or  in  his,  and  smoked  our  ci- 
gars, and  hardly  exchanged,  perhaps,  in  the 
course  of  the  evening,  a  dozen  sentences.     Nei- 
ther felt  any  need  to  talk  unless  when  he  had 
something  to  say ;  and  therefore  we  much  en- 
joyed each  other's  society.     Ned  Lambert  was 
sometimes  with  us,  and  when  with  us,  did  not 
add  much  to  our  loquacity ;  for  he  had  grown 
silent  and  moody  enough,  poor  fellow,  of  late, 
his  soul  brooding  over  one  purpose  and  one 
love. 

;     Thus,  therefore,  we  sometimes  sat  of  an  idle 
evening:    three  men  smoking,  and  mostly  si- 
lent ;  the  Italian  brooding  over  his  new  political 
schemes ;  Edward  Lambert  brooding  over  his 
love-affair,  which  was  so  tormenting  in  its  in- 
complete, not  hopeful,  yet  not  quite  hopeless, 
condition;   I  looking  on  at  both,   and  liking 
both,  and  pitying  them,  and  wishing  I  could 
help  them,  and  in  my  heart  acting  as  their  con- 
fidant, but  not  speaking  much  aloud  of  the  se- 
crets of  either.     Ned  Lambert  and  I  had  hard- 
ly ever  spoken  of  his  love-affair  since  his  Lilla's 
departure.     The  promise  she  had  exacted  from 
me  not  to  speak  to  him  of  her  father  made  me 
anxious  to  avoid  approaching  the  subject  at  all  ; 
and  my  own  disastrous  failure  in  attempting  to 
set  things  to  rights  made  me  feel  ashamed  of 
the  topic.     Moreover,  I  had  a  clear  conviction 
that  the  thing  must  come  right  in  the  end,  and 
I  looked  on  the  separation  of  Ned  and  his  love 
only  as  a  mere  probation,  during  which  he  must 
practice  self-restraint  and  save  money.     So,  if 
sometimes  pitied  him,  I  often  envied  him  as 
well. 

But  the  case  of  Salaris  was  quite  different. 
He  was  a  man  given  up— so  at  least  I  thought 
— to  a  hopeless  object.  I  looked  on  him  as  one 
destined  to  drag  out  a  lingering  life,  hoping 
against  hope,  feeding  upon  air,  wasting  so  much 
that  might  be  noble  and  useful  upon  the  empti- 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


125 


est  of  all  chimeras.  His  face  was  seamed  with 
the  deep  lines  of  failure ;  you  saw  the  ruin  of 
plans  and  plots  written  on  it  as  clearly  as  men 
crossing  the  desert  can  see  the  bones  of  dead 
camels  in  the  sand.  His  life,  past  and  present, 
seemed  to  lie  before  me  openly  as  a  panorama  ; 
the  conspiracies  discovered  before  they  had  been 
half  matured,  the  sworn  confederates  who  dis- 
patched their  daily  reports  to  the  police,  the 
inane  and  empty  projects,  the  hopeful  and  de- 
spairing journeys  to  and  from  London  and 
Paris,  with  the  eye  of  the  Government  quietly 
fixed  upon  the  supposed  incognito  all  the  while  ; 
the  tacit  encouragement  and  half-spoken  prom- 
ises of  diplomatists,  which  would  turn  out  to  be 
reeds  to  lean  on,  or  spears  to  pierce,  when  the 
moment  came ;  the  over-impetuous  friends,  the 
cold  friends,  the  false  friends ;  the  courage  and 
self-devotion  and  soldierly  manly  qualities  all 
flung  away,  the  ruined  life,  the  hollow  cheeks, 
the  prematurely  gray  hair,  the  broken  heart. 

Sometimes  I  thought,  this  man  possesses  all 
that  I  should  once  have  asked  to  make  me  tran- 
quil and  happy.  Had  I  been  Christina's  hus- 
band, I  think  I  could  have  lived  for  her,  and 
with  her.  He  loves  her  only  too  deeply,  he 
trusts  in  her  wholly;  why  can  he  not  be  hap- 
py with  her,  and  leave  his  feverish  and  idle 
schemes  ?  Is  it  wholly  because  he  has  a  lofty, 
absorbing  sense  of  duty  ?  or  is  it  not,  in  part  at 
least,  because  she  does  not  love  him,  and  he 
knows  it,  and  can  only  make  life  endurable  by 
the  presence  of  continual  excitement  ?  I  think 
so.  I  think  he  thirsts  for  a  love  she  can  not 
give,  and  he  drinks  political  excitement  as  the 
thirsty  seaman  on  the  raft,  when  he  can  get  no 
pure  water,  drinks  from  the  salt  waves,  well 
knowing  what  must  come  of  it — and  goes  mad. 

I  think  Christina's  ambition  has  gone  far  to 
destroy — at  all  events,  to  mar — three  lives  :  her 
own,  her  husband's,  and  mine.  Some  day  I 
will  surely  tell  her  so.  Now  I  systematically 
avoided  her,  and  she  avoided  me.  The  more  I 
saw  of  her  husband,  the  less  I  saw  of  her.  It 
so  happened  that  even  on  the  stage  just  now  we 
did  not  so  often  meet,  for  I  had  had  the  evil 
fortune  about  this  time  to  contract  a  pretty  se- 
vere cold  and  hoarseness,  and  my  medical  man 
bade  me  take  rest  and  change  of  air.  He 
recommended  me  to  go  to  the  south — Hastings 
or  Brighton,  or  some  such  place.  I  detested 
these  places  ;  and  it  so  happened  that  my  Italian 
friend  one  night  expressed  a  strong  desire  to 
see  the  English  Lake  country.  I  too  had  never 
seen  it,  and  we  agreed  to  go  together.  My 
physician  had  told  me  some  southern  place  was 
the  only  spot  I  could  go  to  under  the  circum- 
stances ;  I  knew,  however,  that  all  my  voice 
and  I  wanted  was  rest,  and  rest  was  to  be  found 
deliciously  in  the  shadow  of  the  mountains. 
So  we  left  town  at  a  moment's  notice,  and 
traveled  to  Bowness,  Salaris  and  I ;  and  we  had 
some  quiet  days  on  the  Lakes. 

One  glorious  day  we  were  at  Grasmere.  We 
had  been  paddled  across  the  lake  to  the  mount- 
ain, Loughrigg  I  think,  on  the  shore  opposite 


the  road  from  Ambleside.  We  had  scrambled 
our  way  to  a  path  called  the  Terrace  Walk 
which  runs  winding  like  an  order-ribbon  around 
the  broad  chest  of  the  mountain.  We  flung 
ourselves  on  the  ground,  and  looked  silently  at 
the  scene  below.  The  lake  lay  quite  at  our 
feet,  a  sapphire  bedded  in  the  emerald  of  the 
hills.  The  sun  was  already  sinking,  and  his 
beams  shot  across  our  path.  It  was  a  glowing 
day :  heat  lay  upon  every  thing.  The  water 
"ept  in  the  sun,  and  scarcely  stirred  a  ripple ; 
the  grasses  under  our  feet  were  motionless  in 
the  light.  Tiny  insects,  which  even  in  June 
were  generally  to  be  found  nestling  aAvay  from 
the  cold  air,  crept  out  of  their  lurking-places 
to-day,  and  basked  in  the  sunbeams.  Two  or 
three  girls  were  sitting  far  below  us,  with  their 
white  feet  plashing  in  the  stream  which  ran  into 
the  lake.  A  boat,  with  a  solitary  oarsman, 
moved  slowly  across  the  surface  of  the  pool,  the 
rower  merely  keeping  on  his  motion  by  a  stroke 
of  his  paddles  at  intervals.  Distant  peaks  and 
ranges  of  hills  revealed  themselves  for  the  first 
time  in  the  lucent  sky ;  far-off  waters  gleamed 
among  the  mountains  like  sword-blades  shining 
in  the  sun ;  the  white  pebbles  on  the  strand 
seemed  to  suck  in  with  delight  the  ripples  which 
softly  plashed  upon  them.  A  white  cottage, 
.with  the  sunlight  on  it,  blazed  like  a  pale  me- 
teor across  the  valley.  Except  the  occasional 
voice  of  distant  sheep,  or  the  faint  lapping  of 
the  water  on  the  beach,  or  the  twitter  of  the 
birds,  or  the  laughter  of  the  girls  below,  no 
sound  disturbed  the  quiet  of  the  scene. 

We  had  been  some  moments  without  speak- 
ing. A  bird  suddenly  rose  above  our  heads 
with  a  shrill  cry,  and  sailed  away  over  Helm 
Crag.  The  sharp  cry  broke  the  spell  of  silence 
which  had  held  us. 

"This  reminds  me  of  Northern  Italy,"  said 
Salaris,  in  his  low,  musical  voice,  with  some- 
thing always  of  a  thrill  in  it.  "I  have  been 
thinking  of  it  this  some  time.  The  skies  are 
as  clear  as  over  Como  or  Garda :  it  makes  me 
melancholy.  Nature  is  always  melancholy,  I 
think." 

-  "I  suppose  it  is  ;  except  to  a  painter,  whose 
study  it  is,  or  to  somebody  who  never  thinks 
about  it  at  all.  I  think  sunlight  is,  on  the 
whole,  rather  a  sad  thing  to  look  at." 

"So  it  is.  So  is  music,  to  hear;  so  is  any 
music  at  least  that  is  worth  hearing." 

"  Music  is  a  passion  of  yours,  Salaris,  is  it 
not?" 

"  It  is  not ;  it  used  to  be.  It  only  betrayed 
me,  and  I  have  cast  it  off." 

"Betrayed  you?" 

"Disappointed  me— deceived  me.  It  is  all 
illusion ;  you  can  not  reach  it.  It  is  to  the 
soul,  in  life,  what  the  mirage  is  to  the  unfortu- 
nate wretch  in  the  desert.  I  wish  I  had  never 
known  one  note  of  music  from  another." 

"And  you  an  Italian!" 

"  The  more  reason.  The  arts  have  been  the 
Circes  of  Italy.  There  is  no  music  where  there 
is  political  freedom,  and  where  manly  energy 


126 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


finds  room.  What  music  has  England  ?  what 
music  has  America?  No;  it  is  Italy,  Ger- 
many— these  are  the  places  where  people  lie 
down  and  make  songs.  Italy  is  a  slave  tinkling 
her  guitar  to  make  merry  her  master's  friends. 
No ;  I  love  not  music  any  more ;  it  has  betrayed 
me — as  well  as  my  country."  ' 


There  was  a  profound  bitterness,  as  well  as 
pathos,  in  the  tones  of  his  voice  as  he  spoke 
thus.  No  one  follows  a  mere  abstraction,  an 
impersonal  idea,  with  such  emphasis.  I  glanced 
at  Salaris,  and  I  thought  I  could  read  his  heart. 

I  was  anxious  to  lead  him  away  to  other 
thoughts;  so  I  said: 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


127 


"But  you  have  still  hopes  for  Italy's  inde- 
pendence ?" 

"Hopes?  have  I  hopes  of  another  world? 
I  believe  in  the  future  of  Italy  just  as  I  believe 
in  God  :  when  I  despair  of  the  one  I  shall  dis- 
believe in  the  other." 

"  Well,  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  the 
question  as  an  Italian  might,  or  to  look  at  it 
from  an  Italian  point  of  view;  but  the  pros- 
pect does  not  seem  to  me  a  hopeful  one.  Your 
Italians  are  not  agreed  upon  any  'thing  among 
themselves ;  they  don't  know  what  they  would 
have ;  they  have  made  up  their  minds  to  no- 
thing." 

"  My  good  friend,  when  did  a  people  on  the 
eve  of  revolution  know  what  they  would  have  ? 
Did  all  your  English  people  know  what  they 
would  have  when  they  rose  against  Charles  I.  ? 
Did  the  Americans  all  agree  beforehand  upon 
the  object  of  their  revolt  against  England  ?  Did 
the  Dutch  make  up  their  minds  about  wnqf 
was  to  come  before  they  attempted  to  expel  the 
Spaniards  ?  It  is  only  the  very  few  who  lead 
the  rest  by  whom  any  plan  of  action  can  be 
arranged ;  and  even  they,  if  they  are  wise,  do 
not  always  try  to  know  much  beforehand.  You 
are  never  master  of  the  situation  and  the  cir- 
cumstances if  you  have  planned  all  rigidly  in 
advance.  Revolutions  are  not  to  be  set  out 
beforehand,  like  pieces  at  the  theatre.  Let  the 
thing  once  be  set  going,  and  leave  the  issue  to 
Providence." 

"Providence,  they  say,  always  sides  with  the 
strong." 

"  And  we  are  strong,  if  we  only  would  use 
our  strength.  Italians  are  kept  down  in  great 
part  by  what  you  in  England  call  a  sham.  Just 
now  she  has  indeed  one  solid  obstacle  in  her 
path ;  but  that  once  removed  her  course  ought 
to  be  clear." 

"Well,  I  wish  you  every  success,  and  I  only 
wish  I  could  bear  a  hand  in  your  struggle.  I 
might  well  do  so ;  I  have  nothing  to  lose." 

He  looked  at  me  intently. 

"Nothing  to  lose  in  life?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing." 

"  Not  hope — not  success — not  love  ?" 

"  I  have  no  hope ;  and — and  I  have  got  into 
a  wrong  groove." 

"No  way  out  of  it?" 

"No  way — except  over  the  precipice  and 
down." 

"I  should  like  to  enlist  you  in  our  cause, 
and  I  should  have  no  scruple ;  but  I  have  prom- 
ised not  to  bring  you  with  me  in  this." 

"  Promised  whom  ?" 

He  set  his  teeth  hard  upon  his  cigar,  and 
sent  out  two  or  three  puffs  so  fierce  and  sharp 
that  the  smoke  went  straight  from  his  lips  hor- 
izontal as  the  path  of  a  bullet,  until  the  little 
breeze  got  power  and  dispersed  it. 

"I  have  promised  my  wife, "he  said. 

He  fell  into  a  moment's  silence.  Then  I  re- 
sumed : 

"  You  have  some  allies  in  England,  though  ?" 

The  reader  will  remember  that  this  was  a 


year  or  two  before  Solferino,  and  when  italy 
had  as  yet  few  earnest  British  believers.  To 
most  of  us  honest  Englishmen,  despite  Venice 
and  Manin,  Home  and  Garibaldi,  "Italian" 
still  meant  cowardly,  treacherous,  dagger-  using, 
lazy,  dirty,  fawning,  begging,  lying,  vacillating, 
popish,  and  slavish. 

"Yes,  we  have  some  friends;  not  many." 

"  Mr.  Lyndon  is  one  ?" 

My  companion  smiled. 

"  Yes,  he  is  one  ;  and  a  generous  friend." 

"  Does  he  know  of  any  of  your  plans  ?" 

"Some,  if  not  all.  There  is  something  now 
in  prospect  of  which  he  does  not  know." 

"  One  question  more  let  me  ask  you.  Do 
you  know  his  brother?" 

"I  know  the  man  you  mean,  and  I  know 
now  that  he  is  Lyndon's  brother.  I  only  knew 
it  lately ;  but  the  man  himself  is  well  known  to 
me.  We  were  friends  long  ago,  and  served 
each  other." 

"You  don't  trust  Umf 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  he  is  a  treacherous,  selfish  scoun- 
drel." 

"What  words  of  energy!  No;  I  don't 
think  he  is.  He  is  unfortunate  and  heedless, 
and  has  had  a  stormy  youth ;  but  treacherous 
I  do  not  think  he  is." 

"But  you  do  not  meet  him;  you  have  not 
trusted  him  with  any  thing — lately,  I  mean  ?" 

"  I  have  lately  employed  his  services  a  little ; 
but  ^ou  may  rely  that  in  no  case  should  he 
have  much  of  my  confidence.  He  can  be 
made  useful,  but  he  has  not  a  head  to  be  trust- 
ed. He  can  talk  to  Frenchmen  like  a  French- 
rrifin  ;  to  Italians,  like  an  Italian ;  to  English- 
men, like  an  Englishman.  He  can  be  made 
useful  in  a  way,  and  in  that  way  I  use  him,  not 
farther.  He  is  now  in  Paris.  He  came  to  me 
a  few  days  ago,  and  showed  me  that  he  knew 
something — not  much — of  some  projects.  He 
offered  his  services,  and  told  me  he  was  poor. 
I  once  did  like  the  man  ;  and  I  have  some  old 
memories  that  are  strong,  that  are  supersti- 
tions with  me.  I  accepted  his  services." 

"  Salaris,  beware  of  that  man !  He  will  be- 
tray you." 

"The  Englishman  suspects,"  said  my  com- 
panion, faintly  smiling,  "and  the  Italian  does 
not !  What  a  reverse  of  conditions !  But 
have  no  fear ;  we  trust  our  agents  with  knowl- 
edge only  in  their  capacity  of  keeping  it.  He 
can  do  nothing.  If  I  were  to  intrust  you,  I 
should  put  something  in  your  power." 

"Then  do  so.  Let  me  be  in  the  business, 
whatever  it  is.  I  have  good  nerves,  and  a 
pretty  strong  frame.  I  can  use  either  rifle  or 
sword.  I  can  speak  Italian ;  and  I  think  I 
know,  without  teaching,  how  to  die." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"It  would  not  do — yet.  There  are  things 
only  an  Italian  may  do,  even  for  Italy — things 
an  Englishman  must  not  share  or  even  know 
of.  I  told  you  there  is  an  obstacle  to  be  re- 
moved first ;  that  out  of  the  way,  the  drama 


128 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


will  begin.  Then,  if  you  will  play  a  part, 
grasp  your  hand.  After  all,  you  are  at  lea 
Italy's  foster-son.  You1  are  an  artist  an 
singer.  You  have  sucked  at  Italy's  bosom 
You  should  give  out  a  little  blood*  in  retur 
for  so  much  milk." 

"Only  try  me,  when  the  time  comes.  Bu 
the  obstacle  you  spoke  of— is  it  one  that  can  b 
removed  ?" 

"Ay,  it  can  be,  and  it  shall  be." 
"Before  long?" 

"Before  many  days,  perhaps;  before  man 
weeks,  so  surely  as  I  fling  this  stone  into  th 
lake  below." 

He  flung  a  shining  pebble  far  from  the  hill 
side.     No   breath   of  air  stirred  as  I  lookec 
somewhat  languidly  to  see  the  stone  shoot  int< 
the  lake.     But  the  brightness  of  the  atmos 
phere  had  deceived  him,  and  he  thought  the 
task  easier  than   it  was.     The  stone  fell  fa 
short,  and  rattled  into  a  cleft  of  the  hill.     Some 
wild  birds  rose  screaming  from  their  nests,  an( 
swept  across  the  sky. 

Salaris  looked  surprised,  and  even  discon 
certed,  at  the  issue  of  the  test  he  had  offered. 
"Come,"  I  said,  "were  I  a  believer  in  au 
guries,  I  should  endeavor  to  persuade  you  no 
to  go  on  with  your  present  undertaking,  what- 
ever it  may  be.  The  Powers  are  clearly  agains 
you.  "  The  stone  did  not  reach  the  lake.  Did 
you  observe 'at  which  side  the  birds  rose?" 

"  Absit  omen!"  replied  my  companion,  with 
restored  cheerfulness,  and  his  usual  smilfe  of 
mingled  melancholy  and  sweetness. 

We  sat  still  longer  on  the  grass,  thinking 
and  smoking.  My  friend  seldom  indeed  ceased 
to  smoke  under  any  circumstances ;  and  the 
cigar  had  long  been  my  nepenthe,  my  balm  of 
hurt  mind,  my  sovereign  grace.  Disappoint- 
ments, vexations,  humiliations,  reverses,  setem- 
ed  to  float  away  for  the  moment  on  the  vapor : 
to  go  up  like  the  players  of  the  pious  on  the 
steam  of  the  sacrifice. 

The  sun  meanwhile  was  near,  very  near  his 
setting;  the  place  seemed  more  lovely  than 
ever.  More  lonely  and  more  lovely ;  the  soli- 
tary boat  had  long  since  been  moored  under 
the  shadow  of  Helm  Crag ;  and  the  girls  had 
plashed  in  the  water  until  they  were  tired,  and 
then  dried  their  feet  and  put  on  their  stockings 
and  shoes,  and  went  their  merry  way,  wholly 
unconscious  that  far  above  their  heads  two  pair 
of  eyes  watched,  or  might  have  watched,  their 
doings.  They  too  had  gone  away  long  since, 
and  left  my  friend  and  myself  apparently  quite 
alone.  Salaris  lay  fiat  on  the  turf,  after  a 
while,  and  seemed  to  have  fallen  asleep. 

The  skies  were  already  purpling ;  and  shad- 
ows were  falling  over  the  lake.  It  seemed  to 
me  vaguely  as  if  the  sound  of  the  distant  wa- 
terfalls grew  louder  and  deeper  in  the  evening 
air.  In  the  growing  twilight  the  scene  began 
to  lose  its  realities  in  my  eyes,  and  to  become 
transfigured  into  something  more  familiar,  long 
unseen.  I  seemed  to  see  again  beneath  me  the 
bright  bay  of  my  childhood,  with  the  headlands 


clasping  like  arms  around  it,  and  the  gentle 
hills  on  whose  sides  I  so  often  lay  of  evenings 
like  this,  and  looked  idly,  as  now,  on  the  noble 
waters  beneath.  It  was  easy  enough  and  pleas- 
ant enough  to  fancy,  with  half-shut  eyes,  that 
the  scene  I  looked  on  was  still  the  same.  Yon- 
der was  the  wood  sloping  down  to  the  sea— the 
paths  of  it,  as  I  well  knew,  thick  with  fallen 
leaves  at  all  seasons,  thick  at  some  seasons 
with  pine-cones  and  chestnuts;  and  there  is 
the  church-yard  where  my  mother  lies;  and 
there  is  the  path  where  Christina  and  I  used 
to  walk  together.  The  sun  goes  down :  he  is 
gone;  and  the  sunset-gun  will  be  fired  from 
the  frigate  in  the  bay. 

And  just  at  that  moment  a  sharp,  thrilling, 
peculiar  whistle,  seeming  at  first  like  the  long 
scream  of  some  mountain  bird,  rang  through 
the  evening  air,  and  broke  up  my  reverie. 

My  companion  started  to  his  feet,  wide  awake, 
qfid  looked  wildly  around  him.  Far  off,  on  the 
side  of  another  hill,  we  saw  the  figure  of  a  man. 
He  was  coming  toward  us,  and  he  whistled  again 
as  before. 

Salaris  put  one  finger  between  his  lips,  and 
sent  back  a  whistle  so  like  that  we  had  heard, 
that,  but  for  its  nearness  and  loudness,  it  might 
'iave  seemed  an  echo. 

"It  is  some  one  you  know?"  I  asked,  not  a 
ittle  bewildered. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "some  one  I  know;  but 
I  had  not  expected  him  now  and  here." 

He  hurried  to  meet  the  figure,  which  was  now 
n  the  hollow  just  beneath.  I  followed  at  some 
ittle  distance,  allowing  my  friend  to  come  well 
jp  with  his  visitor,  and  exchange  words  with 
aim  unheard.  The  man,  as  well  as  I  could  see 
rim  in  the  growing  twilight,  was  an  Italian, 
ut  of  a  different  mould  from  Salaris.  He  was 
ow,  stout,  with  a  thick  black  beard  cut  close 
ound  his  face,  so  that  his  chin  and  jaws  looked 
as  if  they  were  set  in  it ;  and  he  had  a  roving, 
estless,  hungry,  red -black  eye,  which  rested 
uspiciously  on  me  while  I  approached,  like  the 
ye  of  a  fierce  dog  when,  as  he  is  devouring  his 
aod,  he  sees  a  stranger  coming,  and  is  not  quite 
asy  as  to  the  stranger's  intentions. 

He  had  given  Salaris  a  letter :  and  the  lat- 
er, having  read  it  carefully,  spoke  a  little  in  a 
ow  tone  with  the  messenger.  Then  Salaris 
ailed  to  me  in  a  loud  and  cheerful  voice : 

"Our  friend  has  had  a  rare  search  for  me," 
e  said.  "  He  left  London  this  morning,  and 
5  here  now !  He  brings  me  some  news  which 
bliges  me  to  return  at  once  to  town.  There  is 
o  train  to-night,  unluckily,  from  here  ;  but,  by 
•aveling  on  in  a  carriage  all  to-night,  we  shall 
et  to  Lancaster  in  time  for  the  first  train  in 
ic  morning.  I  am  sorry  to  break  up  our 
larming  little  sojourn  ;  but  there  is  reason." 
"No  unpleasant  news,  I  hope?" 
"  Unpleasant?"  He  paused  a  moment,  and 
eemed  to  weigh  the  word,  and  sighed.  "No, 
ot  unpleasant;  untimely,  perhaps." 

"  Nothing  rash ;  no  madness,  Salaris !  Don't 
sk  your  life  in  idle  attempts." 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


129 


"  My  life  has  no  value  to  me  except  for  thes 
things ;  and  an  Italian  exile's  life  is  always 
conspiracy.  ,But  don't  be  alarmed;  cautio: 
shall  be  used  in  every  thing :  we  have  to  econ 
omize  life,  I  can  tell  you." 
"Can  I  lend  a  hand?" 
"  No,  no ;  it  is  not  time,"  he  said,  with  i 
smile,  "to  fight  for  Italy  in  the  open  field  jus 
yet.  When  it  is,  we  enroll  you.  One  thing  yo 
can  do  for  me.  I  can  only  rush  through  Lon 
don. "  Here  he  put  his  arm  in  mine,  and  drew 
me  a  little  away,  out  of  hearing  of  his  compan 
ion.  "When  you  return  to  town,  see  my  wifi 
alone,  and  tell  her  I  have  had  to  leave  Englam 
hurriedly,  and  that  she  will  not  have  tidings  of 
me  for  some  days.  You  need  not  cut  shor 
your  stay  here :  she  will  not  expect  to  hear  from 
me  for  the  time  we  were  to  be  here.  Needless 
to  say,  I  never  write  to  her  through  the  post, 
Do  you  not  write,  but  see  her — see  her  alone." 

He  pressed  my  hand. 

His  companion  had  a  carriage  waiting  on  the 
road  at  the  nearest  point  of  access  to  the  mount- 
ain. Salaris  got  in,  and  lit  a  fresh  cigar, 
did  not  accompany  them ;  their  way  was  not 
mine,  and  my  companionship  would  doubtless 
have  been  embarrassing.  I  intruded  no  more 
inquiries  or  advice ;  indeed,  I  had  no  basis  on 
which  to  rest  inquiry  or  advice.  I  knew  that 
Italian  plots  of  various  kinds  -had  been  going  on 
for  years ;  that  emissaries  were  constantly  trav- 
eling backward  and  forward  between  London 
and  the  Continent,  with,  so  far  as  public  observa- 
tion was  concerned,  no  apparent  result  whatev- 
er. I  was  therefore  not  much  alarmed  for  Sala- 
ris. I  felt  rather,  indeed,  an  unspeakable  sense 
of  pity  for  the  enthusiast  who  was  leaving  me, 
and  whom,  as  I  did  not  then  know,  I  was  never 
to  see  again.  He  looked  calm  enough  now, 
and  cheerful ;  not  at  all  like  a  conspirator,  at 
least  of  the  theatrical  kind,  with  whom  I  was 
most  familiar. 

"Adieu,"  I  called.      "Beware  of  bringing 
on  your  head  the  anathema  of  Pio  Nono." 

He  smiled  cheerily,  waved  me  a  friendly  fare- 
well, and  the  carriage  bore  him  away. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

"AH,  BEAR  IN  MIND  THAT  GARDEN  WAS 
ENCHANTED." 

DESPITE  Salaris's  hint  that  I  need  not  cut 
short  my  stay  among  the  Lakes,  I  determined 
to  return  to  town  at  once.  Somehow  I  felt 
that  I  could  not  remain  mooning  among  these 
mountains  to  no  purpose  and  alone.  Of  course 
I  pretended  to  myself  to  be  very  sorry  to  have 
to  leave  Nature  so  soon,  and  insisted  that  an 
immediate  return  to  town  was  simply  a  hard 
necessity  not  to  be  avoided ;  but  in  my  soul  I 
was  glad  to  escape  from  a  tete-a-tete  with  Na- 
ture. I  dreaded  her  twilights  and  her  long 
lonely  shadows,  as  children  dread  the  hour  of 
dusk,  when  ghosts  are  supposed  to  lurk  in  all 
T 


dim  closets  and  dark  corners.  To  some  of  us, 
too,  Nature  is  not  a  quick  consoler.  She  wants 
sympathy  terribly.  She  is  so  beautiful  and 
calm  and  good  that  we  poor  sinners  can  not 
hope  to  touch  her  heart  at  all.  The  exquisite 
beauty  of  the  scenes  around  me  just  now,  the 
purple  shadows,  the  pure  outlines,  all  seemed  to 
form  a  sort  of  angelic  society  into  which  I  had 
no  business  to  enter — where,  at  all  events,  I  had 
no  right  to  remain.  So,  instead  of  lounging 
late  among  the  mountains,  I  resolved  to  go 
straightway  back  to  Bowness  and  the  hotel, 
and  to  leave  for  London  in  the  morning. 

This  was  apparently  a  new  instinct,  an  un- 
reasoning, foolish,  utterly  unpoetic  impulse ; 
yet  I  have  good  cause  to  be  thankful  for  my 
prosaic  and  timorous  desertion  of  Nature  ;  for 
the  whole  current  of  my  life  from  that  day  might - 
have  been  changed,  an  existence  the  most  blank 
and  hopeless  might  have  been  allotted  to  me, 
but  for  the  sudden  impulse  which  bade  me  leave 
the  mountains  and  the  tarns  at  once. 

I  turned,  then,  and  set  out  to  walk  home. 
I  even  endeavored  not  to  look  much  or  often  at 
the  beauty  of  the  scenes  which  -surrounded  me 
and  which  I  was  leaving.     Sometimes,  indeed, 
at  a  bend  or  sudden  elevation  of  the  path  I  was 
following,  the  resistless  glory  of  lake  and  wood 
and  mountain,  steeped  all  in  the  rising  purple 
of  evening,  would  arrest  my  attention  for  a  mo- 
ment, like  a  sudden  burst  of  light  flashing  on 
the  eyes  of  one  who  has  been  groping  and  plod- 
ding a  steady  way  in  the  darkness.     But  I  was 
out  of  sympathy  somehow  with  the  scene.     It 
was  not  like  the  sight  of  my  rough  and  pas- 
sionate old  play-fellow  the  Sea,  which,  even 
n  its  softest,  calmest  moods,  has  nothing  of 
the  angelic  and  the  heavenly  about  it,  but  is 
tossed,  and  fitful,  and  reckless,  and  ready  for 
rude  evil  work,  like  any  of  ourselves,  and  never 
abashes  or  rebukes  us  by  a  cold,  pure,  change- 
ess  beauty.     See,  after  all  our  raptures  about 
her,  how  few  of  us  can  long  endure  the  society 
of  Nature !     When  any  thing  has  gone  wrong 
with  us  we  are  ready  enough  to  run  back  to 
ler ;  very  much  indeed  as  a  young  debauchee 
f  prematurely  broken  health  is  seized  with  a 
onging  to  be  once  more  nursed  and  watched 
y  the  tenderness  of  the  mother  whom  he  has 
sft  behind  so  long,  and  hardly  thought  of  in 
he  midnight  hour  of  his  revelry.     Yes,  when 
me  is  sick  at  heart ;  when  his  splendid  soap- 
iubble  has  burst ;  when  he  has  been  rejected 
iy  the  girl  he  would  marry ;  when  his  play  has 
>een  damned,  his  great  part  been  hissed  by  the 
udience,  and  gibed  at  by  the  critics ;  when  he 
elieves   he   has  ruined  his   constitution,  and 
hinks  himself  under  sentence  of  death— then 
e  begins  to  find  out  that  Nature  never  did  be- 
ray  the  heart  that  loved  her,  and  he  crawls  to 
er  knees  perhaps,  and  fancies  himself  becom- 
ig  very  pure  and  devoted  in  her  refined  com- 
anionship,  and  he  admires  himself  and  her 
nth  a  mournful  complacency.     But  he  soon 
rows  tired  of  her  silent  beauty  and  her  unde- 
lonstrative  sympathy ;  her  face  of  loveliness 


130 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


and  her  heart  of  stone.  He  wearies  very  soon 
in  any  case,  and  goes  away ;  while,  only  let  the 
world,  the  flesh,  or  the  devil,  or  all  three  com- 
bined, give  him  another  chance,  and  then  see 
what  follows  ! — open  to  him  any  new  and  prom- 
ising project  in  place  of  that  which  has  col- 
lapsed •;  give  him  reason  to  believe  that  in  his 
case,  too,  the  nineteen  nay-says  of  the  maiden 
make  one  grant ;  let  him  feel  returning  strength 
and  energy  once  again ;  tempt  him  with  an 
opening  for  a  new  play  or  a  new  part — and  ob- 
serve how  soon  he  renounces  the  charms  of  Na- 
ture, and  rushes  to  the  vehement  interests  and 
excitements  of  life  once  more.  Delicious  was 
the  retreat  which  Gil  Bias  made  for  himself  at 
Lirias,  and  calmly  philosophical  was  the  fare- 
well to  Spes  et  Fortuna  which  he  inscribed  over 
its  portals.  But  the  story  does  not  end  there. 
Yet  another  cha'pter,  and  we  learn  how  prompt- 
ly he  quitted  it  for  the  treacherous  court,  and 
ran  into  the  embraces  of  Spes  et  Fortuna  once 
more. 

Indeed,  after  a  thorough  drenching  in  the 
life  of  cities  people  do  not  seem  to  me  fit  for 
Nature's  placid  and  pure  companionship.  We 
ought  to  be  like  the  animal  of  which  people 
say  that  once  its  fur  has  been  soiled  by  contact 
with  common  clay,  it  goes  back  to  its  home  no 
more.  Nature  avenges  herself  somehow,  and 
will  no  longer  put  up  with  us.  We  have  grown 
so  that  we  can  not  do  Avithout  the  city  life ;  we 
miss  its  very  discomforts,  as  Albrecht  Diirer,  in 
the  pathetic  German  story,  missed  even  the  ill- 
humors  of  his  wife,  and  was  glad  to  get  home 
to  her  again. 

So  I  resolved  to  quit  Nature,  and  get  back  to 
Art. 

It  is  but  a  short  walk  from  Grasmere  to 
Ambleside,  and  thence  I  meant  to  go  in  one  of 
the  steamers  to  Bowness,  where  our  head-quar- 
ters were  at  one  of  the  two  or  three  big  hotels 
which  then  looked  out  upon  Windermere.  I 
walked  rather  fast,  and  got  over  a  good  deal 
of  the  ground  without  stopping  even  to  look 
round.  As  I  drew  near  to  Ambleside  the  road 
became  studded  with  handsome  villas  and 
charming  cottages.  The  gates  of  one  villa 
stood  invitingly  open ;  the  back  of  the  house, 
which  was  seated  in  the  midst  of  a  considerable 
patch  of  lawn  and  shrubbery,  was  turned  to 
me,  its  front  looked  on  the  lake.  I  could  not 
see  the  water  as  I  glanced  in,  but  only  the 
hills  which  I  knew  were  lying  on  the  other 
side.  The  hills  were  now  of  a  deep  dark  pur- 
ple, their  outlines  cut  out  sharp  as  steel  against 
the  violet  of  the  sky,  and  over  the  shoulder  of 
one  of  them  rose  in  soft  and  melancholy  beauty 
the  silver  disc  of  the  Shepherd's  Star. 

I  stopped  before  the  gate  and  looked  in,  struck 
beyond  resistance  by  the  quiet  witchery  of  the 
evening  and  the  scene ;  and  seized  with  a  curi- 
ous longing  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  lake,  which 
if  brought  to  view  would  complete  the  charm 
of  the  whole  picture.  So,  as  the  gate  stood 
hospitably  open,  and  I  knew  that  people  are 
not  very  rigid  toward  strangers  in  the  Lake- 


land, I  ventured  in  a  few  paces,  and  took  the 
path  which  led  to  the  left  of  the  house,  assum- 
ing that  that  would  in  a  moment  bring  me  to 
see  the  water.  All  at  once  I  was  aware  of  a 
figure  a  few  yards  in  front  of  me. 

It  was  that  of  a  slender  young  woman,  who 
stood  with  her  back  to  me,  leaning  one  arm  on 
the  bough  of  a  little  tree,  and  holding  a  straw 
hat  in  her  hand.  From  the  position  of  her 
head  I  saw  that  she  was  looking  at  the  sky ; 
and  the  e\ening  light,  the  scene,  the  grace  of 
her  figure,  the  sort  of  pensiveness  expressed  in 
her  attitude,  threw  a  poetic  and  melancholy 
charm  around  her.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  almost 
see 

"The  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 
The  rapt  soul  sitting  in  the  eyes." 

I  could  not  help  gazing  for  a  moment ;  but  I 
would  have  gone  back,  if  possible,  unobserved, 
as  I  had  entered,  only  that,  just  at  that  instant, 
somebody  came  out  of  the  house — somebody 
whom  I  could  not  see  —  and  I  heard  a  wo- 
man's voice  call, 

"MissLilla!" 

I  started  at  the  name. 

The  girl  who  stood  before  me  neither  looked 
round  nor  answered ;  but  a  quiver  of  impa- 
tience went  through  her  figure,  and  her  shoul- 
ders moved  with  a  slight  shrug  of  vexation. 
Looking  now  more  closely  at  her,  I  could  not 
doubt  her  identity.  Chance,  or  fate,  or  provi- 
dence, or  what  you  will,  had  brought  me,  ut- 
terly ignorant  and  blind  as  I  was,  to  the  very 
spot  where  Lilla  Lyndon  stood,  and  which  I 
had  deliberately  refused  to  know  of,  when  the 
chance  was  placed  within  my  power. 

Even  then  I  would  have  gone  away  unseen 
if  I  could,  if  I  had  had  time.  But  the  voice 
again  called — this  time  in  a  sort  of  supplica- 
ting tone,  such  as  one  employs  toward  a  way- 
ward child, 

"MissLilla." 

This  time  Lilla  looked  round ;  she  did  not 
see  me  at  the  first  glance.  The  light,  such  as 
it  was,  just  between  the  death  of  day  and  the 
birth  of  night,  fell  on  her  face.  With  its  pale 
light  against  the  growing  shadow,  that  face 
looked  like  the  etening-star  itself,  which  shone 
above  it ;  the  face  was  now  more  than  ever 
that  of  a  young  Madonna.  Delicately  form- 
ed, with  clear  outlines,  a  smooth,  straight, 
white  forehead,  small  straight  nose,  cheeks 
tha^fc  now  looked  quite  uncolored,  dark  eye- 
brows, and  beneath  them  sad,  clear,  violet 
eyes.  Lilla  Lyndon's  face  was  turned  to  me ; 
and  I  could  not  move,  even  if  I  would. 

Still  she  had  not  seen  me ;  and  she  turned 
to  where  the  person  who  called  her  must  have 
been  standing,  and  whom  she  evidently  could 
see,  although  I  could  not;  and  I  heard  her 
say, 

"  I  am  here,  Anne !     What  is  it  ?" 

"  Miss  Dora  Jane,  Miss  Lilla,  hopes  you  will 
come  in  now.     It  gets  cold,  she  says  ;  and  she    : 
hopes  you  have  your  hat  on." 

"  I  am  coming,  Anne,  in  a  few  minutes  ;  aad   j 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


131 


it  is  not  cold.      I  am  coming,  quite  soon,  tell 
Miss  Dora  Jane." 

Miss  Dora  Jane's  messenger  vanished,  I  sup- 
pose ;  and  then  Lilla  turning  round,  as  if  to  re- 
sume her  old  position,  looked  directly  where  I 
was  standing,  and  saw  me. 

First  she  seemed  only  startled  and  surprised, 
and  she  made  a  step  forward  as  if  to  see  who 
was  the  intruder.  Then  a  sudden  change  came 
over  her  face  and  lighted  in  her  eyes ;  and  she 
put  one  hand  to  her  breast,  and  held  the  other 
toward  me ;  and  then  I  sprang  forward,  only 
just  in  time  to  catch  her  as  she  was  falling — 
for  she  fainted — and  I  caught  her  in  my  arms. 

She  was  a  light  burden,  although  rather  a 
tall  girl.  I  could  have  carried  her,  if  need 
were,  like  a  child ;  but  I  only  held  her  in  my 
arms,  and  drew  her  to  a  garden  seat  which 
stood  near,  and  placed  her  there  reclining ; 
and  was  bewildered,  not  knowing  whether  to 
go  to  the  house  and  ask  for  help,  or  carry  her 
there  in  my  arms,  or  stay  with  her  and  let  no 
one  know. 

Lilla  remained  only  a  moment  unconscious. 
She  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  me,  first 
with  an  expression  of  wonder  and  alarm,  and 
then  with  a  glowing  smile  of  childlike  confi- 
dence and  gladness.  She  passed  her  hand 
across  her  forehead  and  said : 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Temple,  how  much  ashamed  of 
myself  I  feel !  Does  any  one  know  ?" 

"No  one." 

"Thank  Heaven  for  that!  I  should  hear 
such  remonstrances  and  advice.  I  do  not 
know  why  I  became  so  weak  in  a  moment. 
Was  I  long  so?" 

"Only  an  instant." 

"Ah!  What  can  have  made  me  so?  I 
think  you  frightened  me.  First  I  did  not 
know  who  it  was;  then,  I  think,  for  a  mo- 
ment I  thought  it  must  be  a  ghost — this  is  a 
land  of  ghosts,  you  know.  Why  did  you  not 
speak?  Why  did  you  come  in  so  strange  a 
way?  You  quite  alarmed  me." 

"  You  are  better  now,  Miss  Lyndon,  are  you 
not?  -You  look  quite  pale  still." 

' '  Oh,  I  am  quite  well  now— quite  well.  See, 
I  can  walk  quite  strongly.  That  was  only  the 
nonsense  of  a  moment." 

She  stood  up,  and  walked  a  few  paces  firmly 
enough,  although  she  still  was  evidently  a  good 
deal  agitated. 

"Shall  I  go  to  the  house  and  send  some 
one  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  please  no ;  I  don't  want  any  one  ;  they 
would  only  bore  me.  But  now  tell  me,  why  did 
you  come  in  that  strange  way,  and  alarm  me  ?" 

"  I  came  in  only  by  chance,  Miss  Lyndon ;  I 
did  not  even  know  that  you  were  here.  I  walk- 
ed in  a  few  paces — I  don't  know  why — and  then 
I  saw  you,  and  had  not  time  to  go  away." 

"You  did  not  come  here,  then,  to  see  me?" 

"No,  Miss  Lyndon;  I  did  not  even  know 
that  you  were  in  this  part  of  the  country." 

"  I  was  here,  and  you  did  not  know  it ;  and 
your  coming  to  this  part  of  the  country,  and 


into  this  very  place,  was  the  effect  of  chance — 
pure  chance?" 

"Chance — pure  chance." 

"How  strange!"  she  said,  meditatively. 
"  Such  things  would  seem  impossible.  And 
yet — I  must  believe  you." 

"  You  may  believe  me." 

"If  I  had  gone  into  the  house  five  minutes 
before,  you  would  not  have  seen  me?"" 

"No,  Lilla." 

"  I  have  never  heard  of  any  thing  so  strange 
as  that,"  she  said  again,  rather  as  if  speaking  to 
herself  than  to  me ;  "  they  would  never  believe 
it — never." 

"They— who?" 

"My  step-sister  and  the  rest.  They  never 
will  believe  it ;  but  I  can  not  help  them,  and  I 
don't  care.  Let  them  say  what  they  will." 

"There  is  nothing  to  say,  Lilla.  I  have 
seen  you  merely  by  chance,  and  for  a  moment. 
I  am  going  away  again.  I  leave  this  place  by 
the  first  train  to-morrow." 

"  That,  too,  they  will  not  believe.  I  do  not 
like  unbelieving  people;  they  suspect  deceit, 
and.  so  they  create  it  every  where.  Deceit  be- 
comes encouraged  where  nothing  else  would 
be  regarded  as  possible.  This  chance  meeting, 
Mr.  Temple,  will  be  a  reproach  and  a  suspicion 
for  long  enough." 

"  I  am  very,  very  sorry,  Miss  Lyndon,  and  I 
wish  I  had  not  come." 

"So  do  I.  But  it  is  done.  Will  you  go 
now  ?" 

"Yes,  Lilla." 

She  gave  me  her  hand ;  it  trembled  in  mine ; 
and  I  thought  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  In 
answer  to  a  sort  of  plaintive  inquiry  which  spoke 
in  them,  I  said, 

"You  wish  me  to  go,  Lilla — do  you  not?" 

"I  do  —  oh  yes.  I  must  wish  you  to  go; 
but  not  in  a  cold  and  angry  way ;  not  as  if  you 
were  offended  with  me.  Not  as  if  you  thought 
that  I,  of  my  own  accord,  wanted  you  to  go 
away." 

"  Oh  no,  Miss  Lyndon." 

"Why  do  you  sometimes  call  me  Lilla,  and 
sometimes  Miss  Lyndon  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  will  call  you  Lilla  al- 
ways, if  you  wish." 

"I  do  wish  it.  I  wish  that  we  should  be 
friends,  and  speak  to  each  other  so." 

"  I  never  thought,  Lilla,  that  you  wished 
me  away;  I  know  you  are  always  too  kind 
and  friendly.  But  I  know  too — I  should  have 
known  even  if  you  had  not  told  me — that  this 
chance  meeting  might  expose  you  to  reproach- 
es which  you  don't  deserve,  nor  I ;  and  so  I  un- 
derstand that  you  wish  me  away  for  that  reason, 
and  that  you  are  in  the  right." 

"•Tell  me,  Mr.  Temple,  frankly  —  and  for- 
give me  beforehand  for  any  pain  it  may  cause, 
but  tell  me  truly,  and  all,  whether  it  causes 
pain  or  not  to  you  or  to  me — why  does  papa 
not  like  you  ?" 

"Indeed,  Lilla,  I  can  not  tell  you;  I  do  not 
know." 


132 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTEK. 


"  But  you  must  have  some  kind  of  idea ;  you 
must  guess." 

"I  think  it  is  because  he  knows  that  only 
the  other  day  I  was  poor  and  humble.  Not 
romantically  poor,  Lilla,  but  downright  and 
wretchedly  poor.  Now  he  knows  that  I  come 
from  the  poor,  that  all  my  friends  were  poor ; 
I  myself  am  not  a  man  he  cares  to  know ;  and 
I  am  by  far  the  richest  and  the  grandest  per- 
sonage of  my  whole  race.  I  think  he  disliked 
me  always  for  that  reason.  Is  that  frank  ?" 

"It  is.  But  I  must  go  in.  Now  pray  for- 
give me,  and  don't,  oh  don't,  speak  as  if  you 
were  speaking  to  one  who  had  herself  any  such 
ignoble  feelings.  You  have  told  me  that  Ma- 
dame Reichstein  too  was  once  poor,  that  her 
family  and  her  people  were  poor  ?" 

"Yes.  Poor  and  humble — as  my  own.  No 
words  could  be  stronger." 

"Yet  papa  always  admires  her,  and  delights 
in  her  company  ?" 

"  She  is  a  woman  ;  and  beautiful  and  attract- 
ive ;  and — I  think — " 

"Yes,  yes.     Now  go  on,  pray;  don't  stop." 

"I  think  your  father  admires  her." 

"And  I  too,"  she  said,  looking  at  me  with  a 
flash  of  fire  which  I  had  not  expected  to  see  in 
her  Madonna  eyes ;  "  I  think  so  too,  and  Dora 
Jane  is  a  fool  not  to  see  it.  I  know  it.  He 
admires  her,  he  adores  her ;  he  would  give  her 
mamma's  place  if  he  could,  and  I  must  have  no 
friend  unless  such  as  he  pleases  to  give  me! 
But  I  have  a  little  of  his  own  spirit,  and  I  can 
not  so  be  schooled  any  longer.  I  will  not  stay 
here  any  more.  I  hate  the  place — at  least,  not 
the  place,  but  the  way  in  which  I  am  kept  here. 
Mr.  Temple,  I  am  a  prisoner  here,  and  I  can 
bear  it  no  longer." 

"Lilla,  your  father  means  it  all  for  your 
welfare ;  even  I,  whom  he  does  not  like,  must 
admit  that.  He  has  a  right  to  guard  you.  You 
are  young,  and — don't  be  angry  with  me — beau- 
tiful and  sweet  and  trustful,  and  you  have  no 
mother." 

"  Oh,  I  feel  that  bitterly,  more  and  more  ev- 
ery day.  If  I  had  a  mother  I  could  lay  my 
head  upon  her  breast  and  tell  her  all ;  and  she 
would  understand  me,  and  forgive  me  when 
there  was  any  thing  to  be  forgiven,  and  not 
scold  me  in  hard  biting  words.  Mr.  Temple, 
I  have  never  until  lately  known  what  distrust 
was.  I  have  believed  every  one.  Lately  I 
have  been  distrusted,  and  it  has  taught  me  to 
look  at  others  with  eyes  of  doubt :  and  I  begin 
to  find  some  of  my  idols  are  of  clay.  Look, 
they  are  broken,  some  of  them !  I  understand 
now  why  girls  in  other  countries  go  into  con- 
vents, and  live  there  and  die  there." 

"You  will  outlive  all  this,  Lilla,  and  be  hap- 
py, and  wonder  that  you  ever  could  have  had 
these  sad  and  gloomy  thoughts." 

"  Never,  never !  Nothing  can  give  back  the 
faith  and  confidence  which  are  gone." 

"New  faith  and  confidence  will  grow  up,  and 
Other  ties  will  draw  around  you.  Listen,  Lilla, 
dear  Lilla !  I  am  so  much  older  than  you  that 


I  may  talk  to  you  as  wisely  and  boldly  as  I 
think  right.  Do  you  trust  me  ?" 

"Indeed  I  do." 

Her  eyes  looked  a  trustingness  into  mine 
which  to  win  was  worth  having  lived  for. 

"  Then  be  advised  by  me.  Be  reconciled  to 
your  father.  He  may  seem  harsh  now,  and 
harshness  is  strange  to  you,  and  comes  with 
the  greater  pain.  But  he  thinks  only  of  your 
good ;  it  is  his  way  of  showing  his  love.  Don't 
think  of  the  fear  you  had — that  about  Madame 
Reichstein,  I  mean.  Mr.  Lyndon  admires  her 
— all  lovers  of  music  and  genius  do :  but  the 
rest  is  nothing;  and  what  you  feared  is,  I 
know,  an  impossibility.  Be  reconciled  to  your 
father ;  write  to  him  frankly  and  lovingly,  and 
tell  him  so.  Tell  him  that  you  accept  his  con- 
ditions." 

She  hung  her  head  a  moment,  and  without 
looking  up  asked, 

"Do  you  know  the  conditions  ?" 

"  I  do  ;  I  think  I  do  ;  at  least,  I  guess  them, 
dear.  I  may  speak  out  openly  to  you,  may  I 
not,  though  you  are  only  a  girl,  and  I  am  a  man 
not  over-young  ?  His  conditions  are,  that  you 
promise  never  to  see  me  any  more  ?" 

In  the  faintest  syllables  she  assented. 

"Be  advised  by  him,  my  dear.  I  would 
promise  and  pledge  for  you  if  I  could." 

"  Do  you  advise  me  so  ?" 

"I  do,  Lilla;  I  do  indeed.  For  your  own 
sake,  my  dear,  I  advise  it.  Do  not  become  es- 
tranged from  your  father  for  my  sake — I  mean 
on  my  account ;  I  am  not  worthy  of  such  sacri- 
fice ;  I  am  not  worthy,  Lilla  dear,  of  you. " 

O  God,  if  I  were !  If  I  could  now  but  feel 
myself  worthy  of  that  child's  pure  and  generous 
heart !  If  I  could  offer  her  a  fresh,  pure  affec- 
tion like  her  own !  If  I  could  but  believe  it  in 
my  power  to  make  her  happy!  Never,  never 
again  will  such  a  gift  be  within  my  reach  !  No 
man  can  hope  for  such  a  moment  twice  in  his 
lifetime. 

"  You  see  I  speak  to  you  with  a  freedom  and 
frankness  which  might  offend  you,  if  you  were 
not  so  sweet  and  trusting  and  noble  as  you  are. 
I  will  not  affect  to  misunderstand  you,  Lilla ; 
and  you  will  understand  me.  I  am  not  worthy 
of  you,  my  dear ;  you  would  be  thrown  away 
on  me  and  on  my  life." 

"Your  life  has  always  seemed  to  me  beauti- 
ful and  poetical,  and  free  from  all  the  meanness 
and  roughness  of  the  common  world." 

"  From  the  outside  it  seems  so,  Lilla.  It  is 
very  hard  and  commonplace  and  mean  and  bit- 
ter within.  I  do  not  like  it ;  and  I  am  leaving 
it.  I  am  leaving  it  to  steep  myself  in  the  fresh 
life  of  the  New  World,  and  to  lose  myself  there. 
You  will  become  reconciled  with  your  father, 
who  loves  you  dearly,  and  you  will  forget  all 
this,  and  be  married  some  day,  and  be  happy." 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  say  such  things !  Oh, 
how  can  you !  You  are  very,  very  cruel ! " 

She  sat  down  on  the  gnarled  oaken  seat  that 
stood  near  by,  and  covered  her  pale  face  with 
her  white  slender  hands.  Her  whole  figure 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


133 


shook  and  heaved  with  emotion,  and  tears  came 
trickling  through  her  fingers. 

Must  I  own  that,  up  to  this  moment,  I  had 
always  thought  there  was  probably  some  truth 
in  what  Christina  Eeichstein  had  said,  and  that 
any  feeling  Lilla  Lyndon  might  have  had  to- 
ward me  was  in  part  only  a  child's  romantic 
sentiment  toward  a  man  who  lived  in  a  world 
strange  to  her,  and  which  doubtless  showed  it- 
self in  her  unskilled  innocent  eyes  all  poetry, 
wonder,  and  beauty  ?  I  was  not  prepared  for 
the  deep  vehement  burst  of  emotion  and  grief 
I  now  beheld.  I  was  not  even  prepared  to  find 
that  the  sentiment,  whatever  it  might  be,  had 
survived  a  short  separation  and  silence.  I  was 
not  prepared  for  love. 

Could  I  doubt  that  I  saw  it  now  offered  to 
me  ?  Could  I  refuse  it  ? — I  who  had  wasted 
half  a  life  in  vain! 

I  could  not ;  I  would  not.  I  sat  by  Lilla's 
side,  and  put  my  arm  round  her  slender  waist, 
and  drew  her  to  me.  I  would  have  done  the 
same  though  her  father  stood  by.  She  en- 
deavored to  draw  herself  away,  but  I  held  her 
while  I  spoke,  and  her  hands  yet  covered  her 
face. 

"Since  this  is  so,  dearest  Lilla,  why  should 
I  try,  even  for  your  sake,  to  be  wise  and  self- 
denying  in  vain  ?  Since  this  is  so,  I  do  believe 
that  Heaven  has  sent  me  he1"e  to  see  you,  and 
to  save  you  from  a  life  which  is  too  cold  and 
hard  for  you.  If  I  can  make  you  happy  I  will, 
and  I  will  at  least  give  my  life  to  the  attempt. 
I  accept  humbly  and  thankfully  what  Heaven 
gives  me.  Will  you  love  me,  Lilla,  and  have 
me  for  your  husband  ?  I  will  love  you  always. " 

I  heard  no  answer,  and  wanted  to  hear  none. 
But  she  allowed  me  to  draw  her  closely  to  me 
now,  though  her  tears  still  fell  as  before.  And 
then  I  raised  her  face  from  her  hands  and  kissed 
her. 

"Miss  Lilla!" 

The  woman's  voice  again  was  heard  at  a  lit- 
tle distance.  She  was  evidently  seeking  for 
Lilla  near  where  Lilla  had  been  before.  We 
had  gradually  straggled  to  a  distance  from  that 
place,  to  quite  a  different  part  of  the  shrub- 
bery. 

"  I  must  go,"  said  Lilla  ;  "  they  are  looking 
for  me  again." 

She  now  looked  up  for  the  first  time  for  some 
moments,  and  her  eyes  met  mine.  They  were 
full  of  tears,  through  which  at  last  a  smile 
struggled. 

"You  must  go,  dearest.  Your  eyes,  I  fear, 
are  tell-tales." 

"They  will  tell  nothing  more,"  she  said, 
with  a  brighter  gleam,  "than  they  have  often 
told  lately." 

"And  I  did  not  know  of  it !" 

"Miss  Lilla!  Miss  Lilla!" 

"Good-by,  dearest,"  I  again  said.  "Se- 
crecy for  this  once ;  only  this  once.  We  will 
act  in  the  open  face  of  day  soon.  I  will  write 
to  your  father  to-morrow." 

" To  mv  father?" 


She  spoke  tremulously,  and  looked  affrighted 
almost. 

"  Yes,  Lilla.     To  whom  else  ?" 

"But  if— " 

"We  will  talk  of  the  <ifs'  hereafter.  Just 
now,  I  think  of  no  doubts.  You  shall  hear 
from  me,  Lilla,  soon,  very  soon.  Good-by." 

Again  I  kissed  her.  There  was  a  flower  in 
her  bosom,  and  she  took  it  silently  out  and  gave 
it  to  me.  Then  she  went  quickly  toward  the 
house.  She  looked  back  a  moment,  and  I  saw 
her  pale  face  once  more — a  star  in  the  dark- 
ness. It  set — she  was  gone. 

I  came  into  the  road,  and  paced  up  and 
down  there  for  a  long  time,  trying  to  think,  to 
arrange  my  ideas,  to  plan  for  our  future.  It 
looked  difficult  and  complicated  enough,  but 
assuredly  my  heart  did  not  misgive  me ;  even 
on  her  account  I  could  fear  nothing.  I  could 
only  think,  "She  loves  me.  I  am  sent  to  de- 
vote my  life  to  her. " 

The  flower  she  took  from  her  bosom  was  a 
rose.  Something  like  a  shudder  went  through 
me  as  I  looked  upon  it.  An  evil  omen !  When 
last  a  rose  taken  from  a  woman's  breast  was 
my  possession,  what  was  the  story  it  predicted  ? 
Separation,  disappointment,  two,  three  lives 
thwarted  and  frustrated.  An5  now  again  the 
symbol!  Childish  unmeaning  folly  to  think 
of  such  things.  But  I  could  have  wished  that 
Lilla's  flower  were  not  a  rose. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 
LILLA'S  FLIGHT. 

I  DO  not  know  how  long  I  remained  on  the 
road  outside  Lilla's  gate  that  night.  I  only 
know  that  it  was  dark,  like  midnight,  before  I 
thought  of  returning  to  Bowness.  I  have  no 
way  of  expressing  how  I  felt.  My  happiness 
was  an  unspeakable,  an  almost  unbelievable 
ecstasy.  I  felt  happy — and  humbled,  deeply 
humbled.  To  know  that  that  pure,  noble  heart 
had  given  itself  up  to  me  was  indeed  something 
to  fill  me  with  a  sense  of  my  own  miserable 
demerits.  I  could  have  knelt  on  the  bare  road- 
side, and  prostrated  myself,  and  prayed  of  Heav- 
en to  help  me  that  I  might  be  less  unworthy. 

Yesterday  I  should  have  wished  to  do  some 
good  or  great  thing  which  might  win  me  a  place 
of  regard  in  her  memory,  and  redeem  my  barren 
life,  and  then  die.  To-day  my  veins  are  filled 
with  the  ecstasy  and  glory  of  living  for  her. 

I  was  resolved  even  more  than  ever  to  go  to 
town  at  once.  I  would  not  make  any  effort  to 
see  Lilla  again.  I  should  be  wholly  unworthy 
of  her  if  I  did  so.  There  shall  be  nothing  more 
that  has  the  least  appearance  of  secrecy.  I  will 
ask  her  openly  of  her  father;  and  should  he 
refuse,  as  I  know  he  will,  we  will  marry  in  de- 
fiance o'f  him.  Come  the  worst,  it  is  not  long 
before  she  will  be  of  age  to  decide  for  herself. 
And  he — even  he — shall  learn  that  I  have  not 
been  influenced  by  any  hope  or  wish  to  get  his 


134 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


accursed  money.     No  coin  of  his  shall  benefi 
me  or  mine. 

After  a  sleepless,  restless,  happy  night,   '. 
started  by  the  first  train  from  Windermere.     '. 
strained  and  twisted  out  of  the  window  of  the 
carriage  until  we  had  quite  lost  sight  of  th< 
lake,  in  the  futile  hope  of  getting  a  glimpse 
somehow  of  the  villa  and  the  little  demesne  where 
I  had  found  Lilla.     I  could  not  see  the  place 
or,  indeed,  any  thing  near  it.      At  last,  I  am 
ashamed  to  say,  yielding  to  utter  fatigue,  I  fel 
fast  asleep,  and  slept  in  the  carriage  for  hours. 

It  is  a  long  journey  from  Lake-land  to  Lon- 
don. It  was  far  into  evening  when  I  got  to 
town,  and  I  went  almost  at  once  to  Jermyn 
Street  to  see  Christina.  I  was  disappointed, 
however,  in  my  desire  to  see  her  alone,  for  she 
had  several  visitors  with  her  when  I  called. 

She  looked  surprised  and  even  startled  when 
I  presented  myself;  but  she  compelled  herself 
to  receive  me  with  external  composure. 

"I  never  expected  to  see  you  so  soon,"  she 
said.  "You  must  have  grown  tired  of  Nature 
even  more  quickly  than  I  predicted." 

"No,"  I  replied,  "I  did  not  get  tired  of  Na- 
ture ;  or,  at  least,  that  was  not  my  reason  for 
returning  to  town.  But  my  companion"  (I  did 
not  mention  his  tame)  "had  to  desert  me,  and  I 
didn't  care  to  stay  among  the  mountains  alone. 

And  I  looked  significantly  at  Christina. 

"Afraid  of  being  left  to  bleat  alone,  like 
Wordsworth's  lamb  on  the  mountain-side,  the 
plaintive  spirit  of  the  solitude,"  interjected  a 
young  literary  man  present,  who  doubtless 
wanted  to  seem  clever. 

"Indeed?  You  were  left  alone?  Then 
your  fellow-traveler  got  tired  of  Nature  first 
and  left  you  ?"  asked  Madame  Keichstein,  look- 
ing with  anxious  eyes. 

"No,  not  that  either ;  but  some  sudden  call 
found  him  out  even  there  among  the  mountains 
— he  is  such  a  dreadful  fellow  for  sudden  en- 
gagements— and  he  had  to  hurry  away.  He 
could  not  fix  any  time  for  his  return,  and  so  I 
followed  his  flight." 

All  this  was  said  on  both  sides  in  the  coolest 
and  easiest  tone — in  that  tone  of  semi-badinage 
which  people  generally  adopt  on  nearly  all  sub- 
jects when  indifferent  ears  are  open  to  hear. 
But  I  knew  that  Christina  was  anxious  and  un- 
easy, and  I  only  waited  to  get  an  opportunity 
of  exchanging  a  quiet  word  or  two  with  her  to 
tell  her  all. 

The  opportunity  was  soon  made.  She  drew 
herself  away  to  a  little  table  covered  with  books 
that  stood  in  a  corner,  as  if  she  were  looking 
for  something.  I  came  to  her  side.  She  had 
just  said,  in  an  eager  under-tone,  "What  is  it, 
Emanuel?"  and  glanced  up  under  her  eye- 
lashes to  see  that  no  one  was  too  near,  when  I 
saw  a  change  come  over  her  face  ;  and  Mr.  Lyn- 
don, M.P.,  who  had  just  then  entered  the  room, 
approached  her. 

His  eyebrows  contracted  when  he  saw  me. 
She  instantly  left  me,  and  hurried  to  meet  him. 
He  led  her  to  a  sofa  with  an  air  of  lordly  def- 


erence, which  had  something  of  a  sultan's  pat- 
ronage about  it ;  and  they  presently  began  to 
converse  so  earnestly  that  they  seemed  to  for- 
get all  around  them. 

I  was  resolved  to  wait  no  longer.  If  Chris- 
tina had  already  forgotten  all  about  her  hus- 
band, and  her  anxiety  regarding  his  disap- 
pearance, any  thing  that  I  had  to  tell  her  could, 
well  afford  to  remain  untold  until  some  more 
convenient  opportunity.  I  was  quietly  with- 
drawing, when,  just  as  I  passed  near  the  sofa 
where  Christina  sat,  an  artist  I  knew,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  one  of  the  company,  asked, 

"  Did  you  leave  Windermere  only  this  morn- 
ing, Temple?" 

Fire  flashed  under  Mr.  Lyndon's  heavy  eye- 
brows, and  he  almost  started— he  almost  seem- 
ed as  if  about  to  break  in  upon  our  conversa- 
tion. I  noted  the  expression  and  manner,  and 
I  understood  the  meaning.  The  whilom  pau- 
per at  Dives's  gate  was  the  dreaded  lover  of 
Dives's  daughter. 

I  confess  that  I  felt  some  respect  for  the 
self-constraint  which  enabled  Mr.  Lyndon  to 
command  his  feelings  in  an  instant,  and  to  be- 
have as  if  he  had  never  heard  my  friend's  in- 
nocent question.  In  a  moment  Lyndon  and 
Christina  were  conversing  as  before  ;  and  I  left 
them  to  converse.  I  had  always  hated  to  see 
this  man  near  Christina,  and  I  was  pained  not 
less  than  ever  to  see  him  there  now.  So  I  left 
the  place,  where  he  seemed  determined  to  stay. 

But  I  could  not  hate  the  man  any  more. 
There  was  a  time,  and  that  not  long  ago,  when 
I  thought  it  would  have  given  me  pleasure  to 
humiliate  and  mortify  him.     I  had  no  such 
feeling  now.     I  made  every  allowance  and  ex- 
cuse for  him  :  I  desired  sincerely  to  be  as  con- 
iderate  as  possible  toward  him.    I  would  have 
given  much  to  be  able  to  convince  him  of  the 
ntegrity  and  the  disinterestedness  of  my  love 
for  his  daughter.     I  almost  think  I  could  have 
jeen  induced,  under  proper  encouragement,  to 
his  paternal  blessing.     In  truth,  my  love 
br  Lilla  and  my  happiness  in  her  love  swal- 
owed  up  all  mean  hates,  and  spites,  and  ig- 
noble feelings  of  whatever  kind  within  me.     I 
vas  in  fact  almost  in  love  with  the  world.    The 
nearest  approach  to  anger  I  felt  toward  any 
mman  creature  was  toward  Christina  Braun. 
3er  reception  of  Lyndon,  her  eager  welcome 
f  him,  her  absorbed   attention  to   his   talk, 
eemed  to  me  to  bespeak  a  lamentable  levity  at 
a  time  when  some  crisis,  which  she  appeared  to 
hink  serious,  was  impending  over  her  husband. 
I  walked  home  thinking  over  these  things, 
angry  with  Christina,  and  sorry  for  her ;  and 
ometimes,  indeed,  full  of  deep,  deep  pity  for 
er.    It  was  ten.  o'clock  when  I  reached  home ; 
and  I  opened  one  of  my  windows  upon  the  blue 
wilight  of  early  summer,  and  sat  without  a 
amp  and  smoked  a  cigar,  and  began  to  see  my 
ray.     I  must  write  at  once,  this  night,  this 
moment,  to  Mr.  Lyndon.      I  must  anticipate 
ny  inquiry  or  discovery  by  him.      He  must 
now  at  once  that  no  secrecy  of  any  kind  is  in- 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


135 


tended.  From  this  moment  it  is  certain  that 
no  power  of  man  shall  prevent  me  from  mak- 
ing Lilla  Lyndon  my  wife ;  and  he  shall  know 
the  full  truth.  No  idle  feeling  of  pride  or  mor- 
tified self-love  shall  restrain  me  from  making 
every  effort  to  avert  discord  and  disunion. 
Nothing  shall  prevent  my  acting  toward  Lilla 
Lyndon's  father  as  her  love  Reserves  that  I 
should  act.  He  could  no  longer  offend  me.  I 
had  lost  the  right  to  complain. 

I  lighted  my  lamp  and  wrote  a  letter.  It 
was  to  him,  and  ran  thus : 

"  SIR, — Not  long  since  I  endeavored  to  see 
you,  and  I  was  not  successful.  My  object  then 
was  to  pledge  you  my  word  as  a  man  of  honor 
that  I  would  never  place  myself  again  in  the 
way  of  meeting  Miss  Lilla  Lyndon,  or  willing- 
ly be  the  cause  of  any  disunion,  however  slight 
and  passing,  between  her  and  you.  I  was  not 
favored  with  an  interview.  You  believed  me 
guilty  of  conduct  you  had  reason  to  resent.  I 
do  not  deny  it,  or  defend  myself.  The  prom- 
ise, however,  which  I  could  not  make  to  you  I 
made  to  myself,  and  I  would  have  kept  it. 

"Chance — I  am  superstitious  enough  to 
think  it  Providence — ordered  otherwise.  I 
have  just  seen  Miss  Lyndon  in  Westmoreland. 
I  declare  that  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  that 
she  was  in  that  part  of  England.  I  declare 
too  that  I  deliberately  refused  to  know  where 
she  was,  when  I  might  (without  knowledge  or 
consent  of  hers)  have  learned  it.  Our  meeting 
was  as  much  a  surprise  to  her  as  to  me.  This, 
however,  I  need  not  tell  you.  You  know  that 
she  is  incapable  of  deceit. 

"I  write  now  to  ask  you,  as  Lilla  Lyndon's 
father,  for  your  permission  to  me  to  become  a 
suitor  for  her  hand.  I  will  not  affect  to  doubt 
that  this  proposal  will  displease  you.  I  say 
sincerely  I  am  not  surprised  that  you  should 
have  wished  another  husband  for  your  daugh- 
ter. But  I  say  too  that  I  am  worthy  of  her 
thus  far — that  she  has  honored  me  frankly 
with  her  affection.  For  myself,  I  have  but 
lately  learned  to  the  full  how  deep  and  devoted 
is  my  love  for  her.  I  stand  amazed,  and  in- 
deed humbled,  by  the  thought  of  her  affection 
for  me — humbled  because  I  have  nothing  to 
give  in  return. 

"You  are  doubtless  a  rich  man;  your  fa- 
vorite daughter  would  in  the  ordinary  course 
bring  a  fortune  to  her  husband.  Not  so  in 
my  case.  If  Lilla  Lyndon  honors  me  with 
her  love,  and  you  give  your  consent,  I  receive 
her,  and  her  alone.  I  will  not  consent  to  re- 
ceive one  penny's-worth  of  pecuniary  advant- 
age. Even  you  shall  at  least  have  no  reason 
to  suspect  me  of  a  mercenary  motive.  I  can 
myself  maintain  my  wife  at  least  in  comfort, 
though  not  in  splendor ;  and  I  think  Lilla  Lyn- 
don does  not  care  for  splendor. 

"I  wait  your  reply,  and  add  nothing  else. 
Nothing  that  I  could  say  could  honestly  put 
my  appeal  in  any  better  light  to  you.  It 
should  never  have  been  made,  did  it  only  con- 


cern my  own  happiness.  I  make  it  believing 
that  it  also  concerns  the  happiness  of  her 
whom  I  am  sure  you  love. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  be 

"Your  obedient  servant, 

"EMANUEL  TEMPLE. 
"GKOBGE  STAMFORD  LYNDON,  Esq.,  M.P." 

I  had  hardly  finished  this  letter  when  I 
heard  the  rattle  of  wheels  in  the  street,  and 
presently  my  landlady  herself  came  up  and 
told  me,  with  rather  a  significant  twinkle  in 
her  eye,  that  a  lady  wished  to  speak  to  me 
very  particular. 

"Where  is  she?" 

"I  have  shown  her  into  the  drawing-room. 
She  said  it  didn't  matter  about  her  name,  but 
she  must  see  you." 

I  hastened  to  the  drawing-room,  and  found 
Christina  Reichstein  standing  there.  Her  veil 
was  down,  but  I  could  see  through  it  that  her 
face  was  very  pale,  and  that  her  eyes  sparkled. 

"Where  is  my  husband,  Emanuel?"  she 
said,  without  any  introductory  word. 

"I  can  not  tell  you,  Christina.  I  have  told 
you  nearly  all  that  I  know.  He  left  me,  and 
bade  me  tell  you  that  you  should  hear  from 
him  soon." 

"  Where  did  he  leave  you  ?  Where  was  he 
going?  Who  came  for  him?  When  did  he 
say  he  would  return  ?" 

"Christina,  I  am  not  deeply  in  his  confi- 
dence. He  did  not  tell  me  where  he  was  go- 
ing, nor  did  I  ask  any  such  question.  He  did 
say  there  was  nothing  to  be  alarmed  at— imme- 
diately." 

"Who  came  for  him — Benoni?" 

I  described  the  emissary. 

"  Yes ;  Benoni.  I  thought  so — I  feared  so ; 
I  hate  that  man." 

"Is  he  not  true?" 

"True?  Oh  yes,  too  true.  True  to  his 
wretched  plots  and  plans.  But  there  can  be 
nothing  to  alarm  me,"  she  went  on,  reassuring 
herself.  "I  have  not  heard  a  syllable  of  any 
thing.  Is  it  not  very  hot  ?" 

I  opened  the  window  near  her.  She  threw 
back  her  veil.  She  looked  pale  as  a  ghost. 

"  No ;  there  can  be  nothing  of  any  moment," 
she  said,  looking  at  me  anxiously  for  confirma- 
tion of  her  hopes.  "I  believe is  still  in 

town,  and  has  not  heard  of  any  thing  ?" 

And  she  named  an  Italian  name  known  of 
all  men ;  a  name  identified  with  revolutionary 
movement  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury. 

"I  can  satisfy  you  as  to  his  being  in  town, 
Christina.  I  passed  him  at  Knightsbridge-  as 
I  came  along,  not  an  hour  ago.  He  was  walk- 
ing very  quietly  and  slowly — quite  unconcern- 
edly, to  all  appearance." 

"Then  there  can  be  nothing.  It  must  be 
only  some  one  of  those  ordinary  journeyings." 

"But  don't  people  say,"  I  asked,  malig- 
nantly, "  that  the  Chief  prefers  stirring  up 
rebellions  with  the  long  arm  of  the  lever— that 


136 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


he  generally  directs  an  Italian  insurrection 
from  a  safe  stand-point  here  in  London  ?" 

"People  do  say  it,  I  believe,"  she  replied, 
coldly,  "  who  know  nothing  of  him,  and  have 
no  sympathy  with  his  cause,  or  perhaps  with 
any  thing  that  is  noble  and  high.  You  ought 
not  to  say  it." 

I  felt  a  little  ashamed  and  penitent. 

"I  am  sure,"  I  said,  after  a  short  pause, 
"that  I  heard  Berioni,  if  it  was  he,  speak  to 
Salaris  about  the  necessity  of  being  in  Paris  at 
once." 

"In  Paris?  Oh,  come,  this  is  the  only  im- 
portant word  you  have  let  fall  yet.  In  Paris  ? 
If  you  had  only  mentioned  that  before,  I  should 
have  felt  greatly  relieved.  It  is  nothing  defin- 
ite, then?  It  is  only  some  organizing  affair: 
to  seek  for  .aid,  or  advice,  or  friends,  or  some- 
thing." 

"  Yes.  I  don't  see  how  they  can  well  fight 
for  Italian  liberty  in  Paris.  Indeed,  Madame 
Reichstein,  I  don't  believe  there  is  much  cause 
for  alarm.  Perhaps  the  battle  won't  come  off 
just  yet :  threatened  governments  live  long." 

"You  are  in  a  sneering  humor,  Emanuel, 
and  I  don't  like  to  meet  people  in  such  humor ; 
but  I  am  a  good  deal  relieved  by  what  you  tell 
me.  And  now,  before  I  go,  let  me  scold  you 
for  having  left  me  this  evening  so  hastily.  Why 
did  you  not  wait,  and  tell  me  all  you  knew?" 

"In  fact,  I  had  nothing  to  tell ;  and  you  had 
other  people  with  you." 

"  They  all  left  very  soon.  You  might  have 
waited  a  little ;  I  have  no  one  to  confide  in  but 
you." 

"No  one?" 

"  No  one,  now  that  my  husband  is  away.  I 
don't  know  why  you  look  at  me  with  such  an 
expression ;  I  think  you  ought  to  explain  what 
you  mean." 

"  Christina,  I  don't  ask  explanations,  or  offer 
any.  /have  nothing  to  explain." 

"  Yes,  you  have  something,"  she  replied,  with 
energy.  "  You  have  to  explain  your  manner  to 
me — your  suspicious  manner,  and  your  looks, 
which  seem  to  insinuate  something  that  I  do 
not  understand — that  I  will  not  understand." 

"  Ay,  will  not  understand !"  I  said,  with  em- 
phasis. 

"Will  not  understand,  then,  if  you  like  to 
have  it  so.  What  have  I  done  that  you,  my  old- 
est friend,  look  on  me  so  coldly?  Have  I  not 
now  enough  to  distract  and  torment  me  without 
that?  There  is  nothing  I  am  ashamed  of,  al- 
though there  is  much  I  am  sorry  for.  You  are 
changed  toward  me ;  why — why  ?" 

"  Christina,  I  don't  like  your  way  of  life ;  I 
tell  you  that  frankly — indeed,  you  know  it  al- 
ready. I  don't  like  to  see  that  man  Lyndon 
hanging  about  you  in  the  way  he  does — now 
too,  when,  for  aught  you  and  I  can  tell,  your 
husband  may  be  in  some  serious  danger.  I 
don't  like  to  hear  your  name  coupled  with  his 
in  a  way  that — well,  in  the  way  that  people  do 
couple  it." 

Christina  blushed,  or  flushed  rather. 


"My  husband  knows  of  Mr.  Lyndon's  visits. 
What  right  has  any  one  else  to — " 

"No  right,  Christina.  /  claim  no  right. 
You  insisted  on  knowing  why  I  seemed  sur- 
prised, or  cold,  or  something  of  that  kind ;  I 
have  told  you  the  reason." 

"  I  didn't  mean  you,  Emanuel ;  I  meant  the 
idle  people  whose  babble  and  malignant  trash 
you  repeat — people  who  babble  malignant  trash 
about  yourself,  let  me  tell  you,  as  well  as  about 
me.  How  do  you  know  what  things  are  being 
said  of  you  and  of  me  ?  How  do  you  know 
what  vile  gossip  may  have  reached  my  hus- 
band's ear — which  he  scorns  to  believe  ?  Who 
can  tell  what  people  might  say,  if  they  knew, 
for  example,  that  I  have  come  in  this  way  to 
visit  you  at  night  alone  ?" 

There  was  much  of  her  old  winning  way 
about  this,  which,  coming  as  it  did  now,  brought 
a  vague,  subtle  sense  of  deceit  to  my  mind. 

"  Come,  Emanuel,  dear  old  friend,  have  faith 
in  me.  Let  there  be  one  at  least  who  thinks 
well  of  me — one  here  I  mean — for  my  husband 
thinks  well  of  me,  better,  far  better  than  I  could 
ever  deserve  of  him.  If  you  knew  him  well, 
and  knew  how  he  trusts  me,  you  would  not,  and 
could  not,  believe  me  capable  of*  deceiving  him. 
He  knows  that  Mr.  Lyndon  visits  me ;  and  he 
knows  why.  It  is  his  doing  altogether ;  that  is 
all  I  can  tell  you  now ;  but  you  shall  know  more 
before  long.  He  is  all  confidence  and  trust. 
My  dear  friend,  you  and  I  are  very  good  people 
in  our  way,  but  we  are  not  like  him." 

She  spoke  now  with  a  dash  of  sarcasm  in  her 
tone,  and  with  a  quivering  lip. 

"Christina,  I  do  believe  I  have  done  you 
wrong." 

She  sprang  up  and  caught  my  hand  in  a  wild 
way. 

"Yes,  I  do  fully  believe  I  have -been  sus- 
pecting you  wrongfully.  I  don't  pretend  to 
account  for  what  I  have  certainly  observed — " 

She  smiled  half  maliciously. 

"Although  perhaps  even  now  a  conjecture 
does  start  up  in  my  mind  which  seems  to  ex- 
plain it — but  I  will  not  ask  you  for  any  explana- 
tion— " 

"No,  Emanuel.  Believe  me  without  ask- 
ing for  any  explanation  now." 

"And  I  do.  I  am  sorry  for  having  wronged 
you ;  and  I  am  more  sorry  still  for  the  circum- 
stances that  have  entangled  you  in  what  I  can 
not  help  thinking  a  sort  of  humiliation ;  and 
which  will  end,  I  fear,  in  the  wreck  of  your 
happiness." 

"My  happiness  is  wrecked,  Emanuel!  It 
went  down  long,  long  ago.  I  would  give  all  to 
be  young  again,  to  begin  again.  The  old  im- 
memorial vain  regret!  To  be  young  again, 
Emanuel — to  have  the  chance  of  beginning 
again,  and  doing  something  better !  I  sold  my 
soul,  and  I  have  got  a  heap  of  fairy  gold  in  ex- 
change ;  and  it  has  turned  into  withered  old 
leaves." 

My  heart  was  deeply  moved  by  the  state  of 
almost  abject  despair  into  which  she  had  worked 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


137 


herself.  I  endeavored  to  say  something  in  the 
way  of  commonplace  reassurance ;  but  she  cut 
me  short  impetuously,  petulantly. 

"Don't,"  Emanuel;  I  want  no  condolence. 
I  dare  say  every  thing  is  for  the  best,  and  all 
right,  and  all  that :  that  sort  of  stuff  never  made 
any  one  feel  any  the  happier.  If  I  were  to  ask 
you,  Don't  I  look  pale,  and  wretched,  and  ugly, 
at  this  very  moment  ?  you  would  say  something 
complimentary,  I  dare  say.  It  would  not  re- 
assure me.  I  have  had  compliments  enough  in 
my  day,  and  they  have  done  me  much  good ! 
I  have  cried  my  eyes  quite  red,  and  my  cheeks 
quite  pale :  mock  tears  on  the  stage,  and  real 
tears  at  home,  make  sad  work  of  one's  beauty, 
Emanuel.  You  find  the  world  well  enough,  no 
doubt ;  you  were  always  a  patient,  contented 
kind  of  being,  and  did  not  trouble  yourself 
about  any  thing,  as  women  do.  Besides,  you 
have  special  reason  for  happiness  now.  You 
have  seen  Lilla  Lyndon." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"  I  heard,  only  an  hour  since,  that  she  was  in 
the  Lake  country ;  and  I  knew  by  your  air  of 
brightness  and  triumph,  and — oh,  something 
wholly  unspeakable — that  you  had  seen  the  lit- 
tle girl." 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  her." 

"  And  you  will  persevere,  then ;  and  you  will 
not  be  warned ;  and  you  will  take  this  child 
away  from  her  father  and  her  family?  Oh, 
don't  protest  and  look  angry ;  she  will  go  if  you 
ask  her ;  and  you  think  you  can  break  all  the 
bonds  of  association  thus,  and  yet  find  the  wo- 
man you  tear  away  from  friends  and  family  and 
habits  happy  in  the  end  ?  You  know  nothing 
of  women,  Emanuel ;  you  never  did.  She  will 
plunge  into  any  gulf  with  you  now ;  she  will 
awake  with  a  shiver  some  day,  and  turn  a  pale 
face  of  silent  reproach  on  you.  I  don't  think 
the  poor  girl  would  scold. " 

"You  are  a  prophet  of  evil  omen,  Christina." 

"  A  screech-owl,  am  I  not  ?" 

"But  I  am  not  dismayed." 

"  You  believe  in  this  girl's  firmness  and  con- 
stancy, and  knowledge  of  her  own  mind  ?" 

"I  do,  as  fully  as  I  believe  in  Heaven;  far 
more  fully,  very  likely.  I  know  Lilla  Lyndon ; 
I  don't  know  Heaven." 

"You  think  the  bonds  of  love  will  prove 
stronger  with  her  than  the  bonds  of  habit  ?" 

"I  do." 

Christina  shrugged  her  shoulders ;  but  re- 
turned to  the  charge. 

"  She  lives  now  in  Connaught  Place  ?" 

"She  does." 

"And  you  propose  to  live — ?" 

"  In  a  small  house  in  Brompton  or  Kensing- 
ton, say." 

"  She  has  carriages  and  horses,  grooms  and 
maids  without  stint  ?" 

"Yes;  and  it  will  try  my  resources,  proba- 
bly, to  keep  a  miniature  brougham,  a  couple  of 
maids,  and  a  boy  in  buttons.  Connu,  Christina. 
All  that  I  know,  and  have  thought  of." 

"And  she  will  sit  at  home  of  nights  and  do 


crochet,  while  you  sing  at  the  Opera  with  some 
Finola?" 

"No,  Christina.  I  mean  to  give  up  the  Op- 
era— I  am  sick  of  it.  Any  thing  I  can  do  is  bet- 
ter done  in  the  concert-room.  I  will  at  all  events 
try  to  make  her  happy,  if  she  will  have  me." 

"Happy — after  she  has  quarreled  with  her 
father,  and  been  discarded  by  him  ?" 

"She  will  not  quarrel  with  her  father." 

"Emanuel,  you  are  out  of  your  senses." 

"No,  Christina.  I  am  coming  to  my  senses 
—at  last!" 

I  do  not  know  why  I  made  this  reply.  I 
suppose  I  was  merely  carried  away  by  antago- 
nism and  her  last  words.  She  flushed  as  if  she 
had  been  smitten  on  the  cheek,  and  her  bosom 
heaved  up  and  down  like  little  waves,  and  she 
indulged  in  her  familiar  action  of  throwing  back 
that  hair  from  her  brow  and  shoulder.  She 
turned  away  for  a  moment ;  and  then  laying 
her  hand  gently  on  my  arm,  she  said  in  a  soft- 
ened tone : 

"  You  do  not  think  I  wish  you  not  to  be  hap- 

py?" 

"Oh  no,  Christina!" 

"  Oh,  do  not,  do  not !  I  wish  you  to  be  hap- 
py, most  sincerely.  I  only  feared  and  doubted  ; 
but  all  that  is  nonsense.  Indeed,  I  long  to  see 
you  happy.  I  shall  feel  when  I  see  it  that  my 
expiation  is  out,  and  my  penance  removed.  I 
only  feared  that  perhaps  you  did  not  know  her, 
or  she  you.  I  suppose  a  woman  always  feels 
jealous  of  another  who — I  don't  know  really 
what  I  am  saying !  Emanuel,  remember  I  was 
the  first  who  told  you  Lilla  Lyndon  loved  you ! 
My  dear,  I  read  it  in  the  child's  eyes  before 
she  knew  it  herself.  But  you— you  do  love  her 
— now?" 

"  Yes,  Christina,  I  do.  I  know  her  now,  and 
I  love  her." 

"  Then  I  hope  and  pray  that  you  may  be  hap- 
py, and  that  the  future  may  recompense  for  any 
waste  of  the  past.  I  will  pray  for  you,  Eman- 
uel, and  for  her.  Do  you  know  I  am  a  Catho- 
lic now  ?" 

"A  Roman  Catholic?" 

"A  Roman  Catholic,  if  you  will,"  she  said, 
with  a  faint  smile.  "  Yes,  I  have  been  so  for 
some  time.  What  would  my  brother  and  his 
pious  Lutheran  wife  in  Konigsberg — you  re- 
member them,  Emanuel  ? — say,  if  they  knew  ? 
Yes,  I  sought  peace ;  and  I  trust  I  have  found 
it.  You  do  not  know — no  man  could  know — 
how  empty  and  blank  my  life  has  been.  I  have 
none  of  the  true  joys  of  life,  and  I  shall  never 
have.  Other  women,  whatever  their  disap- 
pointments, have  some  comfort  to  cheer  them, 
to  look  forward  to,  when  they  cease  to  be  young ; 
but  I !  Ah !  a  man  can't  know." 

Yet  I  did  know.  I  knew  what  she  thought 
of,  at  least.  What  woman  will  not  mourn  over 
the  quiver  that  is  empty  of  arrows  ? 

"Come,"  she  said,  "I  must  go.  It  is  al- 
most midnight ;  and  this  is  a  mad  escapade. 
I  am  wasting  my  own  time  and  yours." 

As  she  rose  to  go  her  eyes  glanced  at  the 


138 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


looking-glass,  which,  in  the  true  style  of  a 
Brompton  lodging,  adorned  my  chimney-piece. 
"Emanuel,"  she  asked,  quite  seriously,  "have 
I  not  greatly  changed  for  the  worse  ?  But  you 
won't  tell  me.  And  then — don't  say  any  thing 
— so  changed  since  I  used  to  watch  for  you 
in  the  window  every  evening,  long  ago !  Ah, 
those  were  pleasant  days !  I  too  shall  soon 
leave  the  stage.  I  must  in  any  case.  I  am 
resolved  to  go  in  my  full  prime  of  voice.  We 
will  go  and  live  somewhere  quietly  in  Switzer- 
land, I  think,  if  my  poor  Salaris  can  he  per- 
suaded to  give  up  his  dreams,  and  if  he  comes 
safely  out  of  this  present  business.  I  don't 
well  know  what  I  shall  do  without  the  excite- 
ment of  applause.  It  is  a  fearful  thing  for  a 
woman  who  has  nothing  but  excitement  to  live 
on.  But  I  made  my  bed,  and  must  lie  on  it." 
"Christina,  my  dearest,  earliest  friend,  it 
grieves  my  heart  to  see  you  so  unhappy.  Is 
there  nothing  that  can  be  done  ?  Do  confide 
in  me.  Is  there  nothing  ?" 

"Nothing,  oh,  nothing,"  she  answered,  with 

a  sad  wan  smile.     "I  have  now,  oh,  thank 

Heaven,  a  true  and  warm  religion  to  fill  my 

heart.     Then,  Emanuel,  you  forgive  me  all  ?" 

"Dear  Christina,  what  is  there  to  forgive?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  there  is.     I  left  you  for  the  sake 

of  my  own  career  and  my  own  ambition.     I 

went  forth  on  my  fool's  errand  and  left  you, 

and  it  was  long  before  you  recovered  wholly, 

and — and  ceased  to  think  about  me." 

"It  was  indeed." 

"But  you  are  now  free  again,  and  happy, 
and  hopeful ;  and  all  the  past  is  sponged  out, 
and  I  am  forgiven  ?" 

"  Oh,  surely,  surely ;  if  you  will  have  it  that 
I  have  any  cause  or  right — " 

"  There,  that  will  do.    And  we  are  friends  ?" 
"Friends,  Christina,  forever." 
She  leaned  toward  me,  and  kissed  me  on  the 
forehead. 

"We  may  not  meet  again,"  she  said,  "ex- 
cept before  many  eyes ;  and  besides,"  she  added, 
with  a  wild,  sweet  smile,  "it  is  no  wrong  now." 
With  that  kiss  of  peace  she  left  me ;  that 
was  the  funeral  ceremony  of  a  long,  long,  vain 
love  now  dead. 

I  went  down  with  her  to  her  brougham.  Her 
German  "familiar"  was  waiting  for  her,  and 
they  drove  away. 

She  was,  then,  a  Roman  Catholic.  I  after- 
ward learned  that  she  had  been  formally  so  only 
a  few  months.  I  was  not  sorry  for  it.  I  was 
of  no  particular  creed,  and  could  never  ani- 
mate my  mind,  though  in  my  blank  and  lonely 
years  I  often  tried,  into  any  warm  interest  in 
the  differences  of  denominations,  and  the  nar- 
row theological  questions  on  the  solution  of 
which  so  many  good  people  are  content  to  rest 
their  hopes  of  heaven.  I  could  never  believe 
in  the  power  of  any  faith  to  monopolize  the 
right  of  granting  passports  into  heaven.  Many 
people,  I  often  thought,  seem  to  liken  heaven 
practically  to  that  famous  cave  in  the  "Arabian 
Nights,"  the  doors  of  which  opened  at  the  ut- 


terance of  a  few  cabalistic  words,  equally  power- 
ful in  their  operation  whether  he  who  pronounced 
them  understood  what  he  was  saying,  or  com- 
prehended no  syllable  of  its  meaning.  But  I 
was  glad,  somehow,  to  think  of  Christina  kneel- 
ing at  a  Roman  Catholic  altar.  She  seemed 
the  kind  of  being  destined  specially  to  be  a 
Roman  Catholic.  Born  to  be  sustained  after 
every  spring  of  impulse,  passionate,  warm- 
hearted, and  yet  in  some  sense  egotistical 
and  subjective;  strong  and  bold  in  impulse, 
yet  feeble  in  purpose,  and  especially  lacking 
that  steadfast,  stony  patience,  which,  indeed, 
is  almost  exclusively  a  man's  quality — that 
proud,  inexorable  patience  which,  even  in 
great  natures,  as  Macaulay  truly  says,  is  often 
mistaken  for  the  patience  of  stupidity;  hers 
was  a  nature  thoroughly  suited  to  lean  for 
support  on  the  arm  of  a  faith  rich  in  conso- 
lations for  every  mood,  in  appliances  to  soothe 
every  impatience  and  strengthen  every  weak- 
ness. I  could  easily  understand  how  that 
heart,  so  passionate  and  loving,  yet  so  fitful 
and  ambitious,  warmed  toward  a  faith  among 
the  very  ceremonials  of  whose  ministry  are 
sympathy  and  confidence  and  ready  pardon. 
She,  the  disappointed  wife,  the  childless  mo- 
ther, the  ambitious  artist  who  had  won  success 
and  found  it  barren,  what  was  left  for  her  but 
such  ready  and  sensuous  consolations  as  are 
found  in  the  religion  of  Rome  ? 

At  last  I  had  begun  to  understand  Christina 
Braun.  I  have  written  to  little  purpose  if  the 
reader  does  not  already  understand  her.  She 
was  not  the  kind  of  being  I  had  once  imagined. 
Hers  was  not  the  clear,  strong,  self-reliant,  self- 
contained  soul  I  had  once  believed  it.  How, 
indeed,  I  now  asked  myself,  could  I  ever  have 
thought  so  ?  Did  not  a  word,  a  mood,  a  chance 
decide  almost  every  successive  chapter  of  her 
life?  Was  not  strength  of  sudden  impulse 
shining  in  those  dark  and  glittering  eyes  ? 
was  not  instability  of  purpose  shown  in  those 
fair,  soft,  tremulous  outlines?  Vivacity  of 
emotion  was  indicated  in  the  sensitive  lips, 
weakness  of  purpose  in  that  rounded  cheek 
and  chin.  All  those  years  she  had  been 
looking  for  happiness  in  many  paths,  and  had 
not  found  it,  because  she  gave  up  too  soon  each 
place  of  search  and  sought  anew.  She  had  al- 
ways been  seeking  an  object  in  our  darkling 
life,  but .  had  never  gazed  long  or  steadfastly 
enough  through  the  darkness  in  order  that  the 
way  and  the  end  might  become  clear  to  her.  It 
was  natural  that  she  should  take  to  the  stage-life 
and  to  music — music,  that  most  bewitching  of 
delusions,  that  intoxication  of  the  soul,  in  which 
a  nature  like  hers  would  find  all  that  the  Ori- 
ental finds  in  his  haschez.  She  had  sold  her  soul 
to  the  unreal :  they  who  do  so  soon  find  them- 
selves but  shadowless  ghosts  among  the  real. 

Easy  to  understand  how  Christina  Braun 
could  believe  herself  accomplishing  a  high  des- 
tiny when  first  enraptured  by  the  success  of  a 
career  where  the  honors  follow  so  quickly  on 
the  victory  that  they  are  in  fact  its  very  echo. 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


139 


No  success  in  life  is  so  intoxicating  as  that  of 
a  great  prima  donna.  Think  of  the  patient 
author  laboring  for  years  at  some  work  on 
which  he  stakes  his  fame  and  his  happiness, 
and  the  fame  never  perhaps  in  his  lifetime 
spreads  beyond  the  appreciation  of  a  few  re- 
views and  the  admiration  of  one  or  two  coteries. 
Think  of  the  inventor  wasting  away  his  brains 
to  make  perfect  some  great  scheme,  which  an- 
other man  at  the  other  end  of  the  country  may 
be  all  the  while  forestalling,  or  which  may  in 
the  end  only  bring  money  to'  the  capitalist  who 
buys  it,  and  whose  name  it  is  destined  to  bear. 
Think  of  the  gray  old  soldier,  whose  terribly- 
earned  honors  only  come  in  time  to  decorate 
his  corpse.  And  then  think  of  the  successful 
singer  adorned  with  the  gifts  of  emperors,  and 
greeted  in  turn  with  the  plaudits  of  eVery  civil- 
ized capital.  Who  in  St.  Petersburg  cares  for 
the  great  English  savant  ?  What  London  aud- 
ience thrills  at  the  entrance  of  the  Italian  poet  ? 
But  the  great  singer  goes  from  state  to  state, 
and  is  the  idol  and  delight  of  every  people  she 
visits,  and  the  fame  which  precedes  and  follows 
her  is  like  the  language  of  the  music  she  inter- 
prets— cosmopolitan  and  universal. 

But  when  all  this  has  been  tasted,  and  the 
delight  exhales,  what  remains  for  the  sated  and 
sickened  heart?  The  joy  of  the  Art  itself? 
Yes,  if  one  has  loved  the  art  only,  and  for  the 
art's  sake  ;  but  what  remains  for  one  whose  joy 
was  only  in  the  intoxication  of  the  false  emo- 
tions and  the  meretricious  successes  which  the 
art  can  be  made  the  instrument  to  procure  ? 
What  earthly  reality  can  sustain  and  nourish 
the  nature  which  has  lived  in  the  delusion  of 
music  and  the  delusion  of  fame  ?  I  know  of 
nothing.  I  thought  it  but  natural  that,  awak- 
ened from  those  delusions,  Christina  should 
seek  repose  in  that  most  fascinating  and  sublime 
of  all  delusions  which  exhales  from  the  perfumed 
incense  of  the  Church  of  Eome. 

Thus  I  remained  for  some  time,  thinking 
over  Christina  and  the  change  that  had  come 
upon  her.  For  a  long  time,  even  before  I  knew 
it,  the  witchery  of  her  influence  over  me  had 
been  fading.  Her  nature  seemed  to  have  been 
lowered  somehow,  and  unidealized.  Some- 
times, indeed,  the  old  influence  awoke  again, 
and  her  fascination,  her  ardor,  her  generous  im- 
pulses quite  conquered  me ;  but  if  I  had  been 
given  to  self-analysis,  I  might  have  found  that 
her  influence  over  me  was  most  powerful  when 
I  was  not  near  her.  When  lately  I  still  be- 
lieved that  I  loved  her,  it  was  the  memory  of 
my  own  youth  and  hers  that  I  truly  loved.  I 
believe  that  a  man  who  has  been  badly  wound- 
ed in  a  limb,  and  suffers  great  agony,  and  at 
last  has  the  limb  amputated,  is  long  haunted  by 
the  echo  of  the  pain,  which  he  now  can  not  real- 
ly feel  any  more.  And  so  it  was  with  my  feel- 
ings toward  Christina  Braun  of  late.  They  were 
the  echo  of  a  passionate  love  and  a  bitter  agony. 

I  thought  of  her  so  sadly  that,  for  the  time, 
I  almost  forgot  myself  and  what  I  had  to  do, 
and  the  letter  that  lay  written  on  my  desk. 


I  sealed  my  letter,  and  went  with  it  myself  to 
the  post.  Next  evening  I  received  the  follow- 
ing answer : 

"  CONNATTGHT  PLACE. 

«  gIR> — i  do  not  stop  to  express  any  surprise 
at  the  nature  of  the  proposal  contained  in  your 
letter.  I  give  it  the  reply  which  you  appear  to 
anticipate.  I  utterly  decline  to  give  my  con- 
sent to  your  becoming  a  suitor  to  Miss  Lilla 
Lyndon.  I  do  not  believe  that  such  a  course 
could  possibly  conduce  to  my  daughter's  happi- 
ness, of  which  I  still  consider  myself  the  most 
competent  judge,  and  of  which,  at  all  events,  I 
am  the  natural  and  legal  guardian. 

"  You  are  good  enough  to  say  that  you  would 
accept  my  daughter  without  any  fortune.  This 
offer  probably  seems  to  you  magnanimous  and 
romantic.  It  might  possibly  impress  my  daugh- 
ter in  the  same  way.  She  is  still,  as  you  know, 
very  young.  You  will  allow  me,  however,  as  a 
man  of  the  world,  to  remark  that  such  an  offer, 
while  very  easily  made,  could  in  no  case  be  fol- 
lowed by  any  result.  Were  I  willing  to  accept 
your  proposal  to  marry  Miss  Lilla  Lyndon,  you 
will,  of  course,  perceive  that  common  regard 
for  her  interest  and  her  happiness  would  com- 
pel me  to  take  care  that  she  was  provided  with 
such  means  as  I  could  contribute  toward  main- 
taining her  in  the  station  to  which  she  has  been 
accustomed. 

"You  will  perhaps,  for  the  future,  see  the 
propriety  of  withholding  attentions  which  are 
in  every  way  unwelcome,  and  of  refraining  from 
making  proposals  which  can  only  meet  with 
emphatic  rejection. 

"I  have  the  honor  to  remain,  Sir,  your  obe- 
dient servant, 

"GEORGE  STAMFORD  LYNDON. 

"EMANCEL  TEMPLE,  Esq." 

I  had  expected  nothing  better.  I  was  not 
surprised.  I  could  not  be  angry.  Having 
Lilla's  love,  I  could  afford  to  bear  the  cold  re- 
buffs of  Lilla's  father.  I  was  not  discouraged. 
It  would  not  in  any  case  be  long  until  Lilla 
came  of  age  and  could  do  as  she  pleased ;  and 
if  her  love  for  me  could  stand  the  test  of  that 
delay — as  I  now  fully  believed  it  could — no 
power  on  earth  should  prevent  me  from  making 
her  my  wife. 

I  wrote  to  Lilla,  telling  her  what  I  had  done, 
and  the  purport  of  her  father's  answer,  but  soft- 
ening as  far  as  I  could  the  tone  and  temper  of 
it.  I  wrote  full  of  love  and  confidence  ;  bade 
her  wait  but  a  little,  and  all  would  be  well; 
pledged  her  my  earnest,  unalterable  affection, 
and  my  full  faith  in  hers.  In  the  conviction  of 
her  love  I  seemed  to  myself  to  move  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  purple  and  rose-color. 

Days  and  days  passed  away,  and  I  received 
no  answer.  I  grew  restless,  but  hardly  uneasy. 
She  doubtless  found  it  difficult  to  write ;  per- 
haps she  was  not  willing  even  to  pen  a  few  clan- 
destine lines,  but  preferred  nobly  and  patiently 
to  wait.  I  did  not  for  a  moment  doubt  of  her 
love,  or  fear  lest  she  might  have  repented,  or 


140 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


drawn  back,  or  been  talked  into  acquiescence 
with  her  father's  wishes. 

Suddenly  I  heard  a  rumor  which  startled  me, 
and  which  gradually  deepened  into  certainty. 

Lilla  Lyndon  had  been  brought  by  her  fa- 
ther from  Westmoreland  to  his  country  seat  in 
Leicestershire.  The  very  first  day  of  her  re- 
moval there  she  left  his  house ;  she  came  to 
London  by  the  train,  and  thence  disappeared, 
no  one  could  tell  whither. 

I  had  a  stormy  interview  with  Mr.  Lyndon, 
who  came,  excited  and  furious,  to  my  lodgings. 
I  could  tell  him  nothing ;  and  I  am  bound  to 
say  he  came  rather  to  denounce  me  as  the  orig- 
inal cause  of  the  disunion  in  his  family  than 
out  of  any  suspicion  that  Lilla's  flight  had  been 
concerted  between  her  and  me.  He  knew  his 
.daughter  too  well  to  suspect  any  thing  of  the 
kind.  He  could  only  suppose  that  she  had  fled 
to  take  refuge  in  the  bosom  of  some  wild  and 
romantic  school-friend,  who  would  regard  the 
whole  thing  as  a  delightful  chapter  of  romance 
in  real  life.  He  had  gone  or  written  or  sent  to 
every  one  he  could  think  of,  and  he  was  wait- 
ing in  agony  of  expectancy  to  hear  of  her  ar- 
rival somewhere. 

Characteristically,  he  never  thought  of  yield- 
ing to  her  love. 

,  "I  can  not  be  civil  to  you,  Sir,"  he  said,  as 
he  left  me.  '  *  There  was  happiness  in  my  house 
until,  in  a  cursed  hour,  you  saw  my  foolish 
daughter.  I  will  take  good  care  when  she 
comes  back  that  you  never  see  her  again  until 
she  has  recovered  her  senses." 

"You  have  driven  your  daughter  from  your 
house,"  I  answered,  "  and  you  know  it  in  your 
heart.  You  can  never  change  my  feelings  or 
hers." 

"Then  you  still  mean  to  pursue  this  foolish, 
romantic  girl — this— this  child,  Sir  ?"  he  asked, 
with  a  scowl. 

"Until  Lilla  Lyndon  herself  asks  me  to  re- 
lease her  from  such  engagement  as  we  have 
made,"  I  said,  "I  shall  never  change." 

Characteristically,  too,  he  never  thought  of 
his  poor  relations  in  Paris.  He  had  ransacked 
his  brain  not  to  omit  one  of  the  families  and 
friends  Lilla  might  have  sought  refuge  with; 
but  they  were  all  West  End  people  with  coun- 
try houses.  His  suspicions  principally  turned 
to  two  old  school-fellows  of  Lilla's  lately  mar- 
ried ;  one  in  Scotland,  one  in  Florence.  Nay, 
he  even  thought  of  the  maid  who  had  lost  her 
place  for  being  too  faithful  to  Lilla,  and  he  had 
had  her  hunted  up  to  no  purpose.  It  was  quite 
possible,  he  thought,  that  a  romantic  and  head- 
strong young  lady  might  take  refuge  in  the  fam- 
ily of  a  favorite  servant.  That  would  be  like 
something  in  a  novel,  and,  after  all,  would  not 
be  quite  unladylike ;  the  lady  and  the  servant 
would  still  hold  their  relative  places.  It  never 
occurred  to  him  as  possible  that  his  daughter 
could  condescend  to  fly  for  shelter  and  expose 
her  family  quarrels  to  a  pair  of  poor  relations 
who  now  taught  a  school  and  had  lately  let 
lodgings. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

A  YEAR'S  TRIAL. 

I  HAD  thought  of  the  poor  relations  very  soon. 
Nothing  seemed  to  me  more  probable  than  that 
Lilla,  having  resolved  to  leave  her  father's 
house,  would  go  to  the  lately-found  relatives  to 
whom  she  had  been  kind,  and  who  had  known 
me,  rather  than  to  any  of  the  friends  of  her  fa- 
ther. 

I  \vas  hardly  surprised  when,  the  very  day 
after  I  had  seen  Mr.  Lyndon,  I  received  a  let- 
ter addressed  in  a  woman's  hand  which  I  knew 
— the  hand  of  Lilla,  the  elder  Lilla,  Lyndon. 
This  was  what  it  contained : 

"My  DEAR  OLD  EMANTJEL, — Do  you  know 
whom  we  have  got  with  us,  sheltered  here — a 
little  dear  white  pigeon — not  at  all  trembling 
or  weak  though,  but  full  of  pluck  ?  My  cousin 
Lilla.  She  is  the  sweetest  girl  I  ever  knew,  and 
so  fresh  arid  green  that  I  feel  like  her  mother. 

"Now  you  know  why  she  is  here.  My  uncle 
worried  her  to  death  with  his  pompous  old  non- 
sense. But  you  know  that,  after  all,  she  must 
go  back  to  him  or  come  to  some  terms ;  and 
perhaps  her  plucky  conduct  this  time  may  con- 
vince him  that  she  is  not  a  silly  little  child.  I 
can  tell  you  she  has  a  spirit  which  rather  amazed 
me. 

"Well,  I  have  written  to  her  father;  of 
course  I  must,  you  know.  Mamma  would  have 
it  so,  and,  indeed,  I  knew  it  must  be  done.  But 
this  goes  to  you  by  the  same  post.  I  made  up 
my  mind  not  to  give  the  flinty-hearted  parent 
any  advantage  that  he  is  not  entitled  to ;  and 
if  I  were  you,  and  you  are  really  the  true  and 
firm  Emanuel  I  knew,  then  I  think  you  had 
better — I  have  confused  this  sentence,  but  no 
matter — come  over  here  and  have  it  out  with 
him.  She  is  worth  making  a  fight  for ;  and  if 
I  were  a  man,  and  such  a  girl  were  good  enough 
to  bestow  a  thought  on  me,  I  should  like  to  see 
the  father,  mother,  or  grandmother  that  could 
get  her  away  from  me. 

"  I  have  written  this  in  nonsensical  style,  but 
you  won't  mind.  I  am  heart  and  soul  with  her 
and  you. 

"  Always  your  friend,  dear  Emanuel, 

" LILLA  LYNDON." 

Of  course  I  crossed  the  Channel  at  once. 
There  was,  I  found,  a  steamer  for  Dieppe  from 
Newhaven  leaving  rather  earlier  than  the  Do- 
ver mail-boat.  I  chose  it  for  two  reasons: 
first,  there  was  the  less  delay,  and  it  was  some- 
thing to  be  on  the  move ;  next,  there  was  the 
less  chance  of  my  finding  myself  a  fellow-passen- 
ger of  Mr.  Lyndon. 

When  I  got  into  Paris  it  was  not  yet  seven 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  went  to  one  of  the 
hotels  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  bathed  and  dressed, 
and  went  through  some  attempt  at  breakfast, 
and1  then  started  to  walk  through  the  Champs 
Elysees  and  by  the  Elysee  Palace  to  that  part 
of  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore  where  the  Lyndons 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


141 


lived.  I  calculated  that  I  should  reach  it  by 
nine  o'clock,  which  seemed  as  early  as  I  could 
possibly  venture  to  present  myself. 

It  was  Sunday  morning,  and  already  the 
place  was  flooded  with  holiday-makers. 

Somewhere  by  one  of  the  great  ministerial 
offices  near  the  Kue  Eoyale  I  felt  a  hand  laid 
firmly  on  my  arm,  and  looking  round  I  saw  the 
black,  peering  eyes  of  my  hated  acquaintance, 
Stephen  Lyndon,  fixed  on  me.  He  was  dressed 
quite  in  French  fashion,  and  looked  thoroughly 
like  a  Frenchman. 

What  an  interruption !     What  a  delay ! 

At  first  I  began  to  think  that  he  really  had 
gone  mad ;  for  he  talked  loudly  in  French  to 
me,  rejoiced  to  see  me  in  town,  asked  when  I 
had  come  back  from  Russia,  and  other  such 
nonsense,  meanwhile  keeping  his  arm  firmly  in 
mine,  and  walking  by  my  side  with  his  head  as 
high  in  air  as  he  could  manage  to  raise  it.  At 
last,  when  we  got  to  a  quiet  spot  in  the  Champs 
Elysees  under 'a  clump  of  trees,  where  by  some 
chance  there  then  was  a  deserted  space  around 
us,  he  dropped  his  jabber  and  began : 

"  So  you  are  in  this  business  too,  you  most 
deluded  Temple !  Go  back  again,  if  you  have 
an  ounce  of  brains  in  your  head !  Look  here, 
Temple ;  I  told  you  lately  I  had  come  rather  to 
like  you,  that  is,  not  absolutely  to  detest  you. 
Now  I  give  you  the  greatest  possible  proof  of 
my  friendship.  I  doubt  if  Damon  would  have 
done  as  much  for  Pythias — I  do,  on  my  soul ! 
Leave  Paris  by  the  next  train ;  and  laugh  at 
the  fools  who  brought  you  here.'  They  won't 
echo  the  laugh,  I  promise  you." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean ;  and  I  am  in 
no  humor  for  foolery." 

"  Are  you  not  ?  To  see  you  here  one  would 
not  think  so.  But  the  affectation  of  innocence 
is  lost  on  me,  Temple.  Man,  I  know  all  about 
it ;  I  know  who  are  here ;  I  know  Goodboy  is 
coming ;  I  know  they  are  duping  him  too,  and 
not  giving  the  old  idiot  the  faintest  notion  of 
what  they  are  at !  But  here  he  is,  thank  God ! 
The  dies  irce  has  come,  Temple ;  and  I  shall 
give  a  few  of  my  enemies  something.  But  of 
all  men  else,  I  had  avoided  thee,  Temple ! 
How  on  earth  they  got  you  into  this,  or  what 
possible  use  they  thought  they  coujd  make  of 
you,  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  imagine.  But 
get  back.  Vade  retro!  Take  my  advice.  I 
had  always  a  genius  for  advising  others.  Leave 
Paris.  Don't  be  found  here  to-night.  A  nod 
is  as  good  as  a  wink,  you  know !  Adieu ;  and 
remember,  if  you  are  concerned  hereafter  in 
writing  my  biography,  that  once  in  my  life  I 
did  a  good  turn  when  I  had  positively  nothing 
to  gain  by  it!" 

He  withdrew  his  hand  from  my  arm,  became 
a  Frenchman  again,  saluted  me  in  Parisian 
style,  and  turned  back  in  the  direction  whence 
he  had  come. 

Another  time  I  dare  say  I  should  have  dis- 
cerned quickly  enough  a  gleam  of  meaning  in 
his  words.  But  now  I  was  so  glad  to  find  I 
had  really  got  rid  of  him  without  loss  of  time, 


and  that  he  evidently  knew  nothing  of  what 
had  brought  me  to  Paris,  that  no  other  impres- 
sion whatever  was  left  upon  my  mind. 

Not  far  from  the  Palace  of  the  Elyse'e,  in  a 
little  avenue  running  at  right  angles  with  the 
street  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore,  was  the  old- 
fashioned  house,  with  a  small  court,  in  which 
the  lady  who  had  entered  into  a  sort  of  combi- 
nation with  Lilla  Lyndon  the  elder  kept  her 
modest  school  for  the  education  of  French  and 
English  demoiselles.  A  carriage  was  at  the 
door  when  I  came  up,  and  I  assumed  that  Mr. 
Lyndon  had  forestalled  me. 

Yes,  Mademoiselle  Lyndon  was  at  home,  the 
concierge  told  me ;  and  the  bell  for  mademoi- 
selle's apartment  was  rung. 

In  a  moment  my  old  friend  came  running 
down,  looking  very  plump  and  healthy,  her 
dark  eyes  sparkling  with  excitement. 

"  Oh,  you  dear  old  Emanuel!"  exclaimed 
this  impetuous  young  lady,  and  she  kissed  me 
twice  before  I  had  time  to  speak.  "You  are 
just  in  time!  Haven't  you  been  creating  a 
pretty  disturbance  in  a  well-regulated  family! 
Come  on ;  no  time  to  be  lost." 

She  led  me  up  stairs ;  then  into  a  small  dark 
room  with  floor  gleaming  in  wax ;  then  opened 
a  pair  of  folding-doors  which  divided  us  from  a 
larger  room ;  led  me  into  this,  and  announced,  • 
"Mr.  Temple." 

This  room  was  brighter  than  the  other,  and 
had  windows  opening  upon  a  little  garden  where 
there  were  vines.  A  sofa  was  near  the  win- 
dow, and  there  Lilla  Lyndon — my  Lilla— was 
seated,  looking  pale  and  distressed,  but  very 
beautiful,  and  calm,  and  resolute. 

She  was  dressed  in  some  dark  color,  very 
plainly ;  she  always  dressed  plainly,  and  looked 
for  that  very  reason  all  the  more  remarkable  in 
her  beauty.  The  most  careless  glance  must 
have  seen  that  her  face  was  of  exquisite  shape ; 
that  her  complexion  was  singularly  pure,  trans- 
parent, colorless.  H.er  habitual  expression  of 
something  akin  to  melancholy  gave  the  greater 
charm  to  the  sudden  flashes  of  bright  happiness 
which  were  called  up  with  ease  by  any  glad- 
some thought  or  word,. and  which  lighted  her 
face  like  that  of  a  joyous  child.  This  moment, 
as  I  saw  her  first,  she  looked  wholly  sad.  One 
of  her  hands  held  a  vine  leaf,  which  she  had 
plucked  from  the  stems  that  trailed  in  through 
the  open  window. 

I  saw  in  an  instant  her  face  pass  through  its 
most  sudden  and  beautiful  change.  When  I 
looked  on  her  first  her  eyes  were  downcast,  and 
she  was,  as  I  have  said,  all  melancholy  and 
pale.  Her  eyes  flashed  light  on  me  when  my 
name  was  spoken,  and  something  like  a  color 
came  into  her  cheek. 

On  a  chair  close  to  the  sofa  sat  her  father. 
He  had  had  her  other  hand  in  his ;  he  dropped 
it  suddenly  and  sharply  when  I  came  in,  and 
wheeled  round  to  confront  me,  and  his  face 
flushed  a  deeper  tint,  and  his  teeth  clicked  to- 
gether at  the  sight  of  me. 

Standing  at  a  little  distance,  and  looking 


142 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


wretchedly  alarmed  and  uncomfortable,  was  my 
old  landlady,  Mrs.  Lyndon.  I  am  bound  to 
say  that  her  expression  of  countenance  seemed 
to  ask  me  if  I  didn't  think  things  were  bad 
enough  already,  without  thus  coming  to  com- 
plicate them. 

A  mirror  was  over  the  chimney-piece  straight 
before  me,  and  in  it  I  could  see  the  face  of  the 
elder  Lilla,  who  had  introduced  me.  She 
looked  quite  delighted  and  triumphant.  Her 
very  curls  spoke  saucy  triumph. 

"Lilla,"  said  her  uncle,  in  his  harsh,  cold 
voice,  "this  is  not  fair;  I  did  not  expect 
this." 

"Oh,  Lilla,  my  dear!  Good  gracious!" 
murmured  Mrs.  Lyndon. 

Meanwhile  I  crossed  the  room  and  approach- 
ed my  Lilla.  Her  father  made  a  gesture  as 
if  he  would  interpose,  but  controlled  himself. 
Lilla  gave  me  her  hand  without  speaking.  I 
kissed  it.  Her  eyes  met  mine  fearlessly,  and 
they  told  me  of  a  generous  confiding  love,  for 
one  glance  of  which  a  man  might  be  glad  to 
die.  When  she  gave  her  hand  to  me  she 
dropped  the  vine  leaf  she  had  plucked.  I  took 
up  the  leaf  and  kept  it. 

All  this,  of  course,  occupied  not  an  instant 
of  time, 
i     Then  Mr.  Lyndon  addressed  me. 

"Mr.  Temple,  I  certainly  did  not  expect  to 
see  you  here  to-day.  I  do  not  see  what  right 
you  had  to  come — no,  pray  excuse  me  for  one 
moment.  A  man  in  my  position  might  natu- 
rally and  properly  decline  to  see  you,  or  permit 
your  interference  in  any  way,  where  you  cer- 
tainly have  in  fact  no — well,  no — ah  —  locus 
standi.  But  I  have  a  great  objection  to  scenes 
of  all  sorts  in  private  life,  and  we  are  not  now 
rehearsing  Lucia  di  Lammermoor;  therefore,  to 
save  argument  and  scenes,  and  all  that,  I  con- 
sent to  admit  you  for  the  time  to  this  agreeable 
family  conference.  Well,  then,  Mr.  Temple,  I 
have  come  to  take  home  my  daughter.  I  sup- 
pose I  have  a  right  to  do  so  ?  Have  you,  who 
honor  me  by  showing  such  an  interest  in  my 
affairs,  any  objection  to  urge  ?" 

All  this  was  said,  of  course,  in  a  tone  of  cold 
grating  sarcasm,  intended  to  offend,  and  yet  to 
stop  short  of  being  directly  offensive.  I  was 
certainly  not  in  the  least  likely  to  heed  his  tone 
or  manner.  Why  should  I  ?  Had  not  Lilla's 
silent  face  told  me  enough  ? 

"Yes,  Mr.  Lyndon,  I  have  an  objection  to 
urge." 

"Ha,  indeed!  I  propose  to  take  home  my 
daughter,  who  is  a  minor ;  and  you,  who  are 
an  entire  stranger,  have  an  objection  to  urge. 
Hum,  the  objection?" 

"That  I  am  not  certain  whether  Miss  Lyn- 
don is  satisfied  to  go." 

"I  am  not  satisfied  to  go," Lilla  said. 

These  were  the  first  words  she  had  spoken. 
They  were  pronounced  in  a  low,  sweet,  melan- 
choly tone. 

Mr.  Lyndon  frowned  and  bit  his  lip.  An 
explosion  would  evidently  have  relieved  him 


immensely ;  but  he  seemed  to  have  .made  up 
his  mind  not  to  explode. 

"Why  not,  Lilla?"  he  asked.  "You  used 
to  love  your  home." 

"  I  never  loved  my  home  much,  papa ;  but  I 
loved  you  very  much,  and  I  do  still,  and  I  al- 
ways will,  if  you  will  let  me.  But  I  have  been 
very  miserable  lately,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  go 
back  on  the  conditions  you  have  spoken  of.  I 
don't  think  we  could  be  happy  together.  I 
know  I  could  not  be  happy." 

"What  childish  folly!  Why  can  we  not 
live  as  happily  as  before  ?" 

"  Oh,  papa,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  crimson 
now  even  on  her  forehead,  and  tears  in  her 
eyes,  "I  have  told  you  already;  I  have  told 
you  many  times ;  and  here  to-day,  even  before 
my  aunt  and  my  cousin,  I  will  tell  you  again, 
if  you  like.  I  am  not  ashamed,  no,  not  in  the 
least ;  but  you  might  spare  me.  You  know  the 
reason." 

"In  other  words,  Mr.  Temple,  my  daughter 
admits  that  you  have  enticed  her  into  a  clan- 
destine engagement." 

"I  do  not,  papa;  I  could  not  admit  any 
thing  of  the  kind,  for  it  would  not  be  true. 
There  is  no  clandestine  engagement.  Mr.  Tem- 
ple has  never  enticed  me  into  any  thing.  He 
has  held  back  from  me,  he  has  avoided  me,  like 
a  man  of  honor,  like  a  gentleman.  But  you 
ask  me  to  promise  never  to  see  him  again. 
I  will  not  promise  that;  I  can  not  promise 
it." 

"He  offered  to  promise  as  much  the  other 
day,"  Mr.  Lyndon  said.  "Be  offered  it,  for  his 
part." 

"I  did,  Mr.  Lyndon,  because  I  was  willing 
to  make  any  sacrifice  whatever  of  my  own  feel- 
ings for  Miss  Lyndon's  sake.  I  would  have 
done  any  thing,  promised  any  thing,  and  kept 
my  promise,  that  you  and  she  might  not  be 
brought  into  disunion  through  me.  But  I  did 
not  then  know — Oh,  forgive  me,  Lilla,  if  I  speak 
too  plainly — I  did  not  then  feel  sure  that  your 
daughter's  feelings  toward  me  were  as  deep  and 
lasting  as  I  now  believe  they  are.  Providence 
threw  us  together,  and  I  learned  my  own  hap- 
piness. I  will  not  give  it  up  for  any  considera- 
tion upon  earth.  Miss  Lyndon  honors  me  with 
her  affection  ;  that  gives  me  a  claim  and  a  right 
beyond  any  thing  any  other  living  being  can 
have.  No  power  under  heaven  shall  induce 
me  to  resign  it." 

Mr.  Lyndon's  eyes  flashed  fire.  I  must  say 
that  all  this  time  he  was  a  marvel  of  self-con- 
trol and  of  good-breeding— good-breeding  cov- 
ering a  bitter  anger. 

"Mr.  Temple,  I  believe  you  consider  that 
you  owe  me  some  ill-will  for  having  slighted 
you  once  or  twice.  If  that  is  so,  even  you  must 
admit  that  you  see  me  in  a  position  of  sufficient 
humiliation,  brought  about  by  your  means,  to 
atone  for  all  wrongs.  Now  let  me  speak  plainly 
to  you,  and  let  this  extraordinary  conference, 
which  I  certainly  never  invited,  have  some 
practical  conclusion.  You  come  here,  I  as- 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


143 


sume,  to  offer  yourself  as  a  husband  for  my 
daughter  ?" 

I  bowed  my  head. 

"  Then,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  absolute- 
ly, and  for  the  second — I  hope  the  last — time, 
refuse  my  consent'.  If  my  daughter  chooses 
you,  she- loses  me." 

"Oh,  uncle,  for  shame!"  broke  in  the  elder 
Lilla. 

"Lilla,  my  dear!  Lilla,  my  own  child!"  re- 
monstrated her  mother. 

"  Stuff,  mamma !  it  is  a  shame." 

Mr.  Lyndon  looked  at  her  silently  for  a  mo- 
ment. I  am  compelled  to  say  that  his  niece  in 
no  way  flinched.  He  turned  away,  giving  her 
up  apparently  as  hopeless,  and  went  on : 

"  Now  that  is  my  decision ;  and  I  distinctly 
say  it  is  not  to  be  altered.  Of  course  I  can  not 
control  my  daughter's  actions  after  she  comes 
of  age ;  and  in  real  life  the  days  of  coercing 
young  women  and  locking  them  up  in  towers 
have  passed  away.  My  daughter  must  choose. 
I  don't  know  whether  Mr.  Temple  considers  it 
the  best  way  of  proving  his  chivalrous  affection 
for  my  daughter  to  induce  her  to  separate  her- 
self from  her  family,  and  give  up  her  father  and 
her  place  in  society." 

"Papa,  I  have  told  you  that  Mr.  Temple 
never  did  endeavor  to  induce  me.  I  endeav- 
ored to  induce  him.  He  kept  back  because  he 
was  only  too  considerate  for  me.  Please  don't 
pain  me  uselessly  by  speaking  in  such  a  manner 
of  him :  it  pains  me ;  and  indeed,  indeed  it  is 
useless;  it  can  not  change  me." 

"My  daughter  thinks  more  of  Mr.  Temple's 
feelings  than  she  does  of  her  father's." 

"No,  papa.  Mr.  Temple  has  never  said  a 
word  of  you  which  was  unkind.  It  is  ungen- 
erous of  you  to  speak  so  of  him.  You  know  he 
will  not  resent  it,  or  defend  himself." 

Lyndon  looked  at  his  daughter  with  eyes  of 
positive  wonder.  Such  demonstrations  on  her 
part  were  perfectly  new  to  him.  I  thought 
there  was,  with  all  his  anger,  a  certain  expres- 
sion of  admiration  in  his  face.  He  leaned  his 
chin  upon  his  hands,  and  his  hands  upon  the 
head  of  his  cane,  and  looked  at  her  quietly, 
contemplatively. 

"Lilla,  my  dear,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  "  you  are  a  generous  child.  Before  you 
decide,  you  ought  at  least  to  know  all.  You 
are  not,  I  believe,  the  first  of  our  family  whom 
Mr.  Temple  has  honored  with  his  affection : 
you  are  not  even  the  first  Lilla  Lyndon." 

Lilla  turned  h#r  eyes  on  me  with  an  expres- 
sion which  only  seemed  to  say,  "  This  is  a  mis- 
take, is  it  not?"  I  think  my  looks  replied. 

"I  believe  Mr.  Temple  was  once  engaged  to 
my  niece  yonder?" 

"Never,  uncle;  never  in  his  life,"  calmly 
replied  Lilla  the  elder.  "Mr.  Temple  never 
spoke  a  word  of  love  to  me,  nor  I  to  him.  He 
was  no  more  engaged  to  me  than  to  mamma." 

"Oh,  Lilly  dear!"  interposed  her  mother, 
shocked  at  the  apparent  levity  of  the  compari- 


"  But  you  gave  me  to  understand — you  did 
yourself — "  said  Lyndon,  wheeling  round  and 
sternly  confronting  his  niece. 

"A  pious  fraud,  uncle,"  replied  the  young 
ladyy  quite  unabashed.  "And  not  so  much  of 
a  fraud  either,  for  it  was  rather  implied  than 
expressed." 

"A  deceit,  then,  was  practiced  on  me — for 
what  purpose  ?" 

"  A  sort  of  deceit ;  but  Mr.  Temple  had  no- 
thing to  do  with  it ;  never  heard  of  it  until  it 
was  done,  and  then  was  horribly  ashamed  and 
amazed.  I  had  no  reason  to  be  flattered,  I 
can  tell  you ;  and  I  was  very  sorry  for  it,  be- 
cause the  purpose— a  stupid  idea  of  mine,  uncle, 
to  get  your  interest  and  influence — wholly  failed. 
I  had  my  shame  for  my  pains,  that's  all." 

"Perhaps  it  was  also  by  some  delusion  or 
deception  of  the  kind  that  I  have  been  led  to 
believe  Mr.  Temple  was  engaged  to  another 
lady  at  one  time — a  lady  whom  I  know — a  lady, 
in  fact,  who  belongs  to  his  own  profession/' 
Mr.  Lyndon  was  now  growing  very  intense  in 
his  manner,  and  he  kept  his  lips  closely  to- 
gether. "I  don't  care  to  mention  the  lady's 
name ;  but  Mr.  Temple  will  hardly  say  he  does 
not  know  whom  I  mean." 

"I  know  perfectly  well,  Mr.  Lyndon." 

"I  believe  I  am  not  wrong  in  saying  that 
you  endeavored  to  induce  that  lady  to  marry 
you?" 

"You  are  not  wrong." 

A  flush  of  triumph  came  into  Mr.  Lyndon's 
face,  and  he  looked  eagerly  round  at  his  daugh- 
ter. She  had  been  listening  with  an  expression 
of  quiet,  confident,  half-smiling  contempt  to  all 
this  cross-examination,  and  when  the  final  ques- 
tion came»she  glanced  up  toward  me  as  before. 
When  I  gave  my  answer  the  color  rushed  to 
her*  cheeks,  and  a  hurt  and  startled  expression 
came  over  her.  She  half  rose  from  the  sofa, 
and  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and  pain  broke 
from  her. 

"Habet!"  observed  Mr.  Lyndon,  in  a  quiet 
under-tone. 

Lilla  the  elder  raised  her  eyebrows  in  won- 
der. 

"You  are  not  wrong,  Mr.  Lyndon,"  I  said 
quite  calmly ;  and  then  I  turned  to  his  daugh- 
ter. "Listen,  Lilla ;  you  have  a  right  to  a  full 
explanation,  and  there  is  nothing  for  me  to  be 
ashamed  of,  or  for  you  to  condemn.  If  there 
was,  I  should  not  now  be  here.  Lilla,  some 
dozen  years  ago,  when  I  was  hardly  more  than 
a  boy,  I  loved  the  woman  your  father  speaks 
of.  She  was  then  a  poor  girl ;  I  loved  her  dear- 
ly ;  we  thought  to  have  been  married ;  but  we 
were  both  poor,  and  she  looked  for  some  bright- 
er career  than  I  could  give  her;  and  I  don't 
blame  her.  She  left  me,  and  for  ten  years  I 
never  even  saw  her.  I  loved  her  passionately 
all  that  time ;  I  wasted  the  remainder  of  my 
youth  and  much  of  my  manhood  in  fruitless 
love  for  her.  When  at  last  we  met  again  she 
was  married.  I  think,  or  I  then  thought,  that 
I  loved  her  still — at  least  I  loved  her  memory. 


144 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


I  saw  you,  Lilla— and  I  came  to  know,  not  all  I      "Lilla  my  dearest— Lilla  my  love  "  I  sai( 

at  once,  but  gradually  and  surely,  that  I  loved    "you  have  heard  your  father's  decision-  he 

her  no  more.     I  loved  you.     That  is  the  whole    says  he  will  not  change." 

story,  as  true  as  light.    Twelve  years  ago,  when        She  looked  up  with  a  faint  sad  smile  and 

you  were  a  little  child,  I  loved  that  woman,    said  in  a  low  firm  voice : 

She  is  still  my  dear  friend,  and  always,  please        "Nor  I,  unless  you  bid  me.' 

God,  shall  be.     I  love  you  now  better  than  all        "  That  I  never,  never  wili ;  but  I  will  not 

the  world— better  than  memory,  or  youth,  or    allow  you  to  sacrifice  yourself  for  me— for  it 

hope,  or,  I  believe,  than  Heaven !"  will  be  a  sacrifice,  Lilla— without  full  and  long 

Tears  were  in  Lilla's  eyes.  She  made  no  consideration.  You  are  very  young  dearest  • 
answer,  but  quietly,  confidently  put  her  small  you  are  only  twenty  years  old— to  me  almost  a 
white  tender  hand  in  mine,  and  with  the  light-  child— you  do  not  perhaps  even  yet  know  what 
est,  faintest,  dearest  pressure  of  faith  and  affec-  you  are  doing.  Your  father  loves  you  even 
tion  told  me  I  was  believed  and  loved.  now  when  he  seems  most  angry  with'  you 

Mr.  Lyndon's  shot  had  wholly  missed ;  in    Let  us  think  of  him  too ;  go  back  with  your 
fact  his  piece  had  burst,  and  wounded  him  with  '  fa******  «««  i. —  " 
the  splinters.    He  soon  recovered  himself,  how- 


ever, and  he  never  failed  to  remember  that  he 
was  a  gentleman. 


father,  my  love. 

She  started,  and  so  did  he. 
"Oh,  don't  think  I  ask  you  to  give  me  up- 
I  am  not  capable  of  such  a  sacrifice.     But  I  do 

"Well,"  he  said,  "  I  am  sure  there  is  nothing  ask  you,  Lilla,  to  wait ;  to  go  home  with  your 
to  Mr.  Temple's  discredit  in  what  he  has  told  father,  to  be  his  daughter  again  until  you  are 
us.  He  has  no  reason  apparently  to  complain  of  age  and  can  rightfully  decide  for  yourself, 
of  my  having  brought  out  this  explanation.  Live  with  him,  and  do  not  even  see  me  in  the 
He  will  of  course  understand  my  natural  anx-  mean  time,  if  he  exacts  that  condition.  Dear 
iety  to  see  that,  if  my  daughter  chooses  to  make  Lilla,  it  will  be  a  bitter  condition  to  me  to  ful- 
what  I  consider  an  utterly  unsuitable  marriage,  fill,  if  he  demands  it ;  but  I  will  fulfill  it,  and 
it  is  at  least  with  somebody  whose  protestations  you  will  be  guided  by  me,  and  fulfill  it  too. 
of  affection  are  likely  to  be  sincere.  I  think,  And  then  when  that  time  is  out,  I  will  come  to 
however,  we  have  had  quite  enough  of  discus-  you  openly,  and  under  your  father's  eyes,  if  he 
sion  now,  and  had  better  bring  this  very  singu-  will,  and  ask  you  to  be  my  wife ;  and  if  you 
lar  conference  to  an  end.  I  have  made  up.  are  still  of  the  same  mind  as  now,  I  will  accept 
my  mind,  and  have  mentioned  my  decision,  your  sacrifice  without  scruple,  and  recognize 
From  that  I  shall  not  depart.  If  my  daughter  no  right  under  heaven  to  interpose  between 
chooses  you,  Mr.  Temple,  she  has  done  with  you  and  me.  Let  us  do  this,  my  dearest,  and 
me.  That  being  so,  I  ask  you,  Sir,  what  you  I  shall  then  have  no  fear  that  I  have  taken  ad- 
propose  to  do  ?"  vantage  of  the  tenderness  of  a  young  heart,  and 

"First,  to   speak   for  a   few  minutes  with    beguiled  you  into  a  sacrifice." 
Miss  Lyndon  alone."  Lilla's  hand  clung  to  mine  all  the  closer. 

"That  you  shall  not,  by  God!"  exclaimed  Her  father  said : 
Mr.  Lyndon,  losing  for  the  first  time  his  self-  "  Mr.  Temple,  I  can  not  help  saying  that 
control  and  the  hard  iciness  of  his  manner,  your  proposal  seems  that  of  a  man  of  honor. 
"  Never,  while  she  is  under  any  control  of  and — and,  in  fact,  of  a— of  a— gentleman.  I 
mine.  Too  much  of  that  already ;  but  for  do  not  attempt  to  induce  my  daughter  to  ac- 
that,  we  never  should  have  been  brought  to  cept  it ;  I  fear  my  influence  now  would  be  of 
this  outrageous  state  of  things.  No,  Sir,  if  little  avail.  It  is  only  fair  to  you  to  say  that 
you  have  any  thing  to  say  to  my  daughter,  it  there  is  not  the  slightest  chance  of  my  views 
must  be  said  in  her  father's  presence,  or  not  at  with  regard  to  your  proposal  undergoing  anv 
all.  She  is  still  my  daughter."  change  in  the  mean  time.  But  I  promise  you 

Then  in  your  presence,  Mr.  Lyndon,  if  you  that  no  pressure  shall  be  brought  to  bear  upon 
please.  I  desire  to  take  no  advantage  even  of  Lilla,  either  by  me  or  my  other  daughters,  to 
you ;  you  shall  hear  every  word."  distress  her  in  any  way.  The  subject  shall,  if 

He  frowned  and  assented.  she  wishes,  never  be  alluded  to.     I  would  ask 

Lilla  the  elder  and  her  mother  quietly  left   you,  perhaps,  in  the  interval,  occasionally  to 
the  room  and  closed  the  folding-doors  behind    honor  me  with  your  company  at  my  house ; 
them.      Mr.  Lyndon  stood  up ;  his  daughter   yet,  all  things  considered—"    , 
remained  seated  on  the  sofa,  pale  still,  with)      "  Spare  yourself  any  such  consideration,  Mr. 


say 


tears  in  her  eyes,  but  undismayed. 

"  Now,  Sir,"  Mr.  Lyndon  said,  harshly, 
what  you  will ;  and  to  the  point,  please." 

He  took  out  his  watch  and  glanced  at  it. 

I  sat  beside  Lilla  and  took  her  hand.  He 
chafed,  and  looked  for  an  instant  as  if  he 
would  have  interfered ;  but  he  again  con- 


Lyndon;  I  could  not  accept  your  invitation." 

Then  I  turned  to  Lilla  and  pleaded  my  ar- 
guments against  myself,  against  my  own  heart, 
once  more.  Heaven  knows  what  it  cost  me  to 
plead  for  that  year  of  separation  and  silence. 
Heaven  knows  the  agony  of  the  pang  that  oc- 
casionally shot  through  me  as  I  thought  of  the 

trolled  himself,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  possibility  that  a  year  of  severance  might 
one  who  would  say,  "  Better  let  this  fooling  change  the  heart  of  even  a  girl  so  loving  and 
have  its  way;  it  must  finish  soon."  I  noble  as  Lilla,  who,  after  all,  was  yet  in  the 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


145 


light  sunshine  of  her  twentieth  summer.  'But 
I  ordered  my  soul  and  hers  to  bear  it.  Be- 
lieving that  for  her  sake — for  her,  who  was  so 
young  and  trustful  and  innocent — it  was  but 
right  and  just,  I  stamped  my  selfish  emotions 
under  my  feet,  and  pleaded  for  my  own  sen- 
tence of  banishment. 

Mr.  Lyndon  meanwhile  looked  on  with  a 
queer,  puzzled,  half-humorous  expression.  I 
believe  in  his  heart  he  thought  for  a  while  that 
I  was  trying  a  mere  coup  de  theatre,  making  a 
grand  display  of  self-sacrifice,  in  the  hope  that 
he  might  start  up,  as  the  father  in  a  well-con- 
structed domestic  drama  would  naturally  be 
expected  to  do,  declare  that  he  was  not  to  be 
conquered  in  generosity,  and  place  his  daugh- 
ter's hand  in  mine.  He  was,  as  I  have  already 
mentioned,  a  quiet,  interested,  admiring  student 
of  the  selfishnesses  and  frauds  of  human  nature. 
He  studied  them  and  delighted  in  them  as  a 
naturalist  does  in  watching  the  habits  of  some 
kind  of  insect ;  and  he  believed  he  had  dis- 
covered the  secret  spring  of  all  the  impulses 
of  man  and  woman.  I  had  reason  to  know 
that  the  very  women  at  whose  skirts  he  ostent- 
atiously hung,  and  on  whom  he  spent  his  money, 
he  thus  studied  as  if  they  were  rabbits  or  bees, 
and  smiled  to  himself  whenever  he  found,  or 
thought  he  found,  some  new  little  meanness. 
He  therefore  listened  with  an  expression  of 
whimsical  interest  while  I  pleaded  with  Lilla, 
and  the  corner  of  his  mouth  played  with  a  quiet 
humor,  as  if  he  smiled  in  anticipation  over  the 
certain  failure  of  this  my  melodramatic  artifice. 
I  saw  the  look,  I  understood  it,  and  I  despised 
him. 

".Now  then,  Lilla,"  he  said  at  last,  "your 
decision,  my  dear?" 

"/know  it  already,"  I  said. 

"  I  will  go  with  papa,"  Lilla  murmured. 

Mr.  Lyndon  smiled  a  triumphant  smile. 

"And  I  will  do  as  you  tell  me,  Emanuel, 
because  I  believe  in  you,  and  because  you  ask 
me  in  the  name  of  your  own  feelings  and  your 
own  sense  of  honor.  You  shall  be  satisfied 
that  I  have  not  acted  like  a  child.  Let  us 
wait ;  it  will  not  be  very  long,  and  then  we 
can  have  nothing  to  repent.  You  will  not 
change,  Emanuel." 

"No,  by  Heaven— not  I  r 

"And  for  me — if  you  doubt  me — oh,  wait 
and  see.  You  have  talked  of  a  sacrifice. 
This  is  the  sacrifice,  and  I  agree  to  it  for  your 
sake.  Papa,  you  have  not  understood  Mr. 
Temple.  If  he  were  to  ask  me  this  moment 
—yes,  this  moment — I  would  leave  all  on  earth 
to  go  to  him  and  be  his  wife,  and  be  happy,  or 
suffer,  or  die  with  him.  He  asks  me  to  wait ; 
and  I  do  so  for  his  sake,  and  because  he  asks 
me,  and  I  too  wish  to  show  and  prove  to  all  the 
world  that  he  is  what  /  know  him  to  be.  For 
a  year,  then,  Emanuel,  good-by.  Let  us  not 
see  each  other  any  more  until  that  time,  that 
long  time,  is  out.  Then  come  to  me.  You 
will  find  me  unchanged — or  dead.  Papa,  you 
lose  your  daughter  either  way." 
K 


She  was  rising  with  a  proud,  firm  air.  But 
her  soul  was  stronger  than  her  frame,  and  she 
pressed  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  gave  a  deep- 
drawn  sigh,  and  fainted. 

I  caught  her  and  held  her  in  my  arms.  Her 
father  made  a  step  forward ;  but  I  peremptorily 
signed  to  him  to  keep  back.  I  would,  if  needs 
were,  at  that  moment  have  held  him  back  with 
one  arm,  while  I  sustained  her  with  the  other. 
Then,  after  one  long,  sad,  delightful,  madden- 
ing moment,  during  which  I  kissed  her  lips, 
her  cheek,  her  forehead,  her  eyes,  I  laid  her 
softly  on  the  pillow  of  the  sofa,  whereon  she 
had  been  about  to  fall  when  I  caught  her  ;  and 
I  said  to  Mr.  Lyndon  : 

"She  will  revive  in  a  moment :  and  she  will 
go  with  you,  Sir.  Be  kind  to  her." 

"Damn  it,  Sir !"  he  said,  angrily ;  "I  know 
how  to  take  care  of  my  own  daughter.  She 
always  loved  me  and  obeyed  me  until  now." 

So  I  left  the  father  and  the  daughter. 

I  glanced  back  as  I  passed  through  the  fold- 
ing-doors, and  saw  that  he  was  bending  ten- 
derly over  her,  and  touching  her  hair  with 
hands  that  trembled  and  looked  hot ;  and  I 
do  believe  that  I  saw  a  tear  fall  from  his  eyes. 
The  cynical  student  of  human  nature  had  found 
out  a  new  weakness — in  himself!  Make  him 
laugh  at  that ! 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

DANGER-SIGNALS. 

AN  hour  after,  I  was  walking  alone  through 
one  of  the  alleys  of  the  Champs  Elysees. 

I  had  waited  but  a  few  moments  with  Mrs. 
Lyndon  and  her  daughter,  long  enough  to  hear 
that  things  were  going  rather  prosperously  with 
them ;  that  Mrs.  Lyndon  hated  Paris,  and  the 
Parisian  way  of  cutting  steaks  and  chops  and 
joints ;  that  they  had  sometimes  seen  Ned 
Lambert,  "as  a  friend,"  Lilla  said;  and  that 
he  was  still  constant,  patient,  hopeful.  I  was 
glad  to  learn  that  Lilla  knew  nothing  of  her 
father's  whereabouts — her  father,  whom  I  had 
seen  that  morning  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
of  her  house ! — and  I  put  in  many  words  for 
Ned  Lambert,  and  against  her  resolution  of 
delay.  She  shook  her  head  sadly,  but  deci- 
sively. 

"  You  have  to  wait,"  she  said;  "why  not 
we  ?  If  a  woman  is  worth  having,  Emanuel, 
she  is  worth  waiting  for.  I  will  never  marry, 
never,  while  that  wretched  man  lives,  or  until 
I  know  that  he  is  reclaimed.,  and  decent  enough, 
at  all  events,  not  to  bring  open  shame  on  my 
husband.  If  Edward  Lambert  is  like  me,  he 
will  wait.  If  not,  Emanuel,  then  would  it  not 
be  better  we  never  became  any  thing  more  to 
each  other?" 

"Ned  will  wait,  never  fear." 

"  Oh  yes,  Ned  will  wait" — and  a  tear  flashed 
up  in  her  bright  eye.  "There  never  was  a 
heart  more  true  and  tender  than  his — dear  old 
Ned,  dear  old  Ned !" 


146 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


My  poor  friend's  own  heart  had  greatly  ex 
panded  since  I  first  saw  her.  She  was  a  sad 
der  and  a  more  loving  woman  now  than  I  ha 
ever  known  her.  My  pretty  pagan  was  be 
coming  thoroughly  Christianized.  The  sou 
was  entering  the  body  of  the  hardly-entreated 
world-seared  Undine  of  the  Thames. 

Thinking  over  this,  even  amidst  the  bewil 
tiering  pressure  of  my  own  thoughts,  I  walkec 
slowly  through  the  Champs  Elysees.  I  was  t( 
leave  Paris  that  night ;  to  travel  again  by  Dieppe 
lest  I  should  obtrude  myself  on  Mr.  Lyndon 
and  I  had  yet  some  weary  hours  to  while  away 
Despite  my  parting  from  Lilla — despite  tin 
year  of  probation,  fraught  with  such  various 
possibilities,  that  lay  before  me — the  pervad 
ing  sensation  of  my  soul  was  made  up  of  pride 
and  happiness.  I  had  something  to  love,  I  hac 
something  to  live  for— I  was  loved.  Out  of  the 
dullness  and  arid  darkness  of  my  commonplace 
purposeless  existence  a  light  of  heaven  hac 
come  down  to  me.  I  had  no  longer  any  doubt 
of  the  depth  of  Lilla  Lyndon's  affection.  I  be- 
lieved without  shadow  of  distrust  in  the  im- 
mortal strength  of  her  love,  and  I  seemed  as 
if  henceforth  I  walked  with  a  pillar  of  light  to 
guide  my  way.  Wait  for  a  year ! — why,  I  had 
waited  for  ten  years  and  more,  in  vain,  and  I 
would  have  accounted  it  no  sacrifice,  if  the 
time  had  but  accomplished  the  object.  If  the 
younger  love  for  Christina  had  been  more  fe- 
verish and  burning,  it  had  never  had  the  deep 
sweet  abiding  faith  I  felt  in  the  soul  and  the 
nffection  of  Lilla  Lyndon.  The  first  glance 
she  ever  turned  on  me  was  like  a  ray  of  sacred 
moonlight  to  one  who  has  lain  down  wearied 
in  a  sandy  desert.  In  her  I  found  the  woman 
who  is  all  truth  and  simplicity ;  who  has  char- 
acter, but  no  self.  How  such  a  being  ever 
came  to  love  me,  I  never  could  understand — I 
can  not  now  understand ;  but  it  always  seemed 
to  me  that  her  love  was  a  consecration  which 
pledged  me  to  all  good  and  generous  impulses, 
and  bade  selfishness,  and  evil  passion,  and  dis- 
trust, be  gone  forever.  A  year— only  a  year ! 
and  the  deep  faith  and  sanctity  and  heavenly 
guardianship  of  her  love  the  while.  A  year — 
and,  after  all,  I  am  yet  young !  it  shall  be  a 
year  of  earnest  work  and  improvement,  and 
preparation  for  the  future,  which  now  at  last 
looks  so  clear  and  bright. 

Prose  in  life  always  mingles  with  our  poetry. 
I  was  already  turning  over  practical  plans  for 
our  future ;  plans  into  which  questions  of  in- 
come largely  entered.  I  had  a  year  to  work 
in,  and  during  that  interval  I  hoped  to  make 
a  little  money,  and  then  to  give  up  the  stage. 
In  every  way  the  concert-room  suited  me  bet- 
ter  and  pleased  me  better;  and  I  thought  I 
could  thus  lead  a  far  quieter  and  happier  life 
with  Lilla. 

Thinking  over  these  things,  I  sauntered 
through  the  Camps  Elysees,  where  now  it  be- 
came hardly  possible  to  find  a  quiet  spot.  The 
Sunday-enjoying  people  were  all  out;  the  men 
with  their  wives,  and  mothers,  and  little  chil- 


dren', the  husbands  generally  attending  more 
to  the  children  than  the  wives  did ;  the  ouvrier 
and  his  amie,-  the  voitures  de  remise  full  of  pleas- 
ant parties  going  off  to  the  Bois— although  the 
Bois  of  the  year  I  speak  of  was  very  different 
indeed  from  that  of  1869 ;  the  soldiers  loung- 
ing and  smoking ;  the  queer  riders  looking  so 
very  much  as  if  they  had  hired  their  horses  for 
the  first  time  that  very  day,  and  did  not  well 
know  what  to  do  with  them. 

I  sat  at  a  table  of  one  of  the  open  cafe's  and 
looked  at  the  scene.  I  was  thirsty,  and  ordered 
some  wine ;  drank  it,  and  smoked  a  cigar,  and 
fell  thinking. 

A  man  passed  by  once  or  twice,  and  surveyed 
me  curiously.  At  last  he  came  and  took  a  seat 
at  a  table  near  me,  and  still  eyed  me  attentively. 
I  knew  he  was  looking  at  me,  even  when  I  did 
not  see  him  ;  so  I  looked  up  at  last,  and  stud- 
ied his  features.  Yes,  I  must  know  him ;  I 
had  certainly  seen  him  before  somewhere. 

But  where  ? 

He  was  evidently  an  Italian  or  Spaniard — 
an  Italian  more  likely.  He  was  low  and  stout, 
with  a  thick  black  beard  cut  closely  round  his 
?ace,  and  he  had  a  strange  restless,  suspicious, 
turning,  wolf-like  eye,  unpleasant  to  see,  al- 
though the  general  expression  of  his  face  was 
otherwise  honest  and  manly  enough. 

Yes,  I  know  that  man  ;  at  least  I  have  seen 
lim  before  ;  that  is  not  a  man  to  quarrel  with  ; 
that  is  a  man  to  do  any  thing.  For  a  certain 
class  of  conspirator,  now — 

Ah !  there  it  is  !  that  is  the  man !  The  en- 
<oy  who  found  Salaris  in  Westmoreland,  and 
ook  him  away ! 

Then  there  came  a  very  rush  of  half-forgot- 

en  things  to  my  mind.     My  own  concerns  had 

made  me  forget  them.     The  words  which  Ste- 

hen  Lyndon  had  spoken  to  me  this  morning : 

lis  wild   vague   talk  of  something   going  on 

which  he  meant  to  disclose;  his  advice  to  me 

o  leave  Paris  this  very  night !     And  Salaris  is 

n  Paris  ;  and  this  man,  who  brought  him,  hap- 

)ens  to  be  at  my  very  elbow.     And  Lyndon 

lad  been  intrusted  with  some  of  their  secrets ! 

In  a  moment  the  reality  of.  the  whole  situa- 
ion  seemed  to  reveal  itself  to  me.  Whatever 
he  plot  Salaris  had  now  in  hand,  Stephen  Lyn- 
on  had  betrayed  it  to  the  French  Government, 
nd  its  eyes  were  on  the  conspirators ! 

Even  in  that  moment  I  was  much  puzzled 
o  think  what  the  mysterious  plan  for  the  re- 
emption  of  Italian  liberty  could  be  which  was 
o  open  its  first  scene  in  Paris.  Every  body 
new,  however — even  I  did,  who  took  but  lit- 
e  interest  in  politics,  home  or  foreign — that 
le  French  Government,  or  at  least  its  chief, 
ras  willing  enough  just  then  to  play  into  the 
ands  of  the  legitimate  and  despotic  Italian 
ilers — the  Bourbons,  and  Parmas,  and  Mode- 
as,  and  the  Pope ;  and  the  arrest  of  Salaris 
nd  the  discovery  of  any  thing  like  a  genuine 
lot  might  probably  mean  his  instant  surrender 
o  Pope  or  Austrian  or  Austria's  vassal.  Sen- 
ence  of  death  had  been  recorded  against  him 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


147 


in  some  of  the  Italian  States  ;  and  he  had  but 
lately  effected  a  desperate  and  romantic  escape 
from  a  Lombard  prison.  The  surrender  of  such 
a  man  now  to  any  of  his  old  enemies  would 
probably  mean  a  short  shrift  and  a  sharp  axe. 

This  man  near  me  is  trust-worthy  ?  He  must 
be.  He  seemed  to  be  fully  in  the  confidence 
of  Salaris,  and  Christina  spoke  of  him  as  a  man 
of  undoubted  truth. 

He  was  still  eying  me  curiously.  I  ad- 
dressed him  in  Italian,  and  in  a  low  tone. 

"I  think  I  have  had  the  honor  of  meeting 
you  before,  signor  ?" 

He  nodded  his  head,  and  smiled. 

"  In  England — a  few  days  ago  ?;> 

"  Up  among  the  mountains  ;  yes." 

"  You  know  I  am  a  friend  of  Signor  Sala- 
ris?" 

"Yes,  signor." 

"He  has  told  you  so?" 

"Often." 

A  more  laconic  person  one  could  not  easily 
meet ;  and  he  indulged  in  not  the  slightest 
gesticulation. 

"You  will  trust  me." 

He  nodded,  and  glanced  round  to  see  that 
the  garyon  was  not  too  near.  4 

"  Does  any  one  here  speak  Italian  ?"  I  asked, 
thinking  that  he  dreaded  being  overheard  and 
understood. 

"  I  think  not,  signor.  But  they  may  know 
that  we  are  speaking  Italian — and  even  that — " 
he  finished  the  sentence  with  another  glance 
round  and  a  slight  shrug. 

"Perhaps  English  would  do  better.  Do 
you  speak  English  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  some." 

"You  understand  it?" 

"Much  well." 

"Then,"  I  said,  speaking  slowly  that  he 
might  follow  my  meaning,  "I  have  reason  to 
fear  that  you  and  our  friend  the  signor  are  be- 
trayed." 

He  started  and  frowned  ;  then,  after  a  mo- 
ment of  silence,  said, 

"  Impossible." 

"It  is  possible  ;  it  is  true.  I  have  seen  and 
spoken  to  the  man  who'betrayed  you.  He  told 
me  he  had  done  it,  or  meant  to  do  it.  Take 
care  !  I  do  not  know  what  your  plans  are,  or 
what  you  are  doing  in  Paris  ;  but  I  tell  you 
that  I  fully  believe  every  thing  either  is  now 
known  to  the  police  here,  or  will  be  known  be- 
fore night." 

He  looked  grim  and  set  his  teeth,  and  a  low 
red  fire  burned  in  his  eye.  I  began  to  tell  him 
exactly  what  I  knew ;  but  I  had  so  often  to 
repeat  what  I  said,  and  he  had  such  difficulty 
in  following  me,  despite  his  professed  mastery 
of  English,  that  I  discarded  his  objection  to 
Italian,  and  told  him  my  story  in  his  own  lan- 
guage. I  told  him  that  a  man  whom  I  knew 
to  be  partly  in  Salaris's  confidence,  and  who 
was  now  in  Paris,  had  warned  me  to  leave  the 
city  before  night,  and  hinted,  or  more  than 
hinted,  that  he  had  given  information  to  the 


government  which  would  lead  to  arrests.  And 
I  give  him  my  own  view  of  the  character  of 
the  man  who  had  told  me  this,  and  my  belief 
that  in  this  at  least  he  was  quite  capable  of 
keeping  his  word. 

"This  man's  name,  signor?" 

I  hesitated.  Ought  I  to  betray  even  the 
wretch  who  was  betraying  others  ?  There  was 
a  savage  gleam  in  my  companion's  eyes  which 
boded  ill  to  a  traditore.  After  all,  the  wretched 
Stephen  Lyndon  had  had  some  thrill  of  good- 
nature in  him  toward  me,  and  had  endeavored 
to  save  me  from  what  he  supposed  to  be  a  great 
danger.  No,  I  could  not  give  up  his  name; 
and  I  told  the  Italian  so. 

"I  ask  you,"  he  said,  quietly,  "because  all 
would  depend  upon  that.  He  may  tell  all  he 
knows,  and  yet  tell  nothing." 

"But  he  clearly  told  me  that  he  would  be- 
tray Salaris." 

"Possible.  The  signor  does  not  quite  un- 
derstand. It  may  be  that  he  is  set  on  to  be- 
tray something  that  is  truly  nothing,  in  order  to 
turn  away  attention  from  the  real  business.  I 
do  not  know." 

"Do  you  know  where  Salaris  is?" 

"  Not  where  he  is  now.  I  hope  to  see  him 
in  Paris  to-night." 

"  Can  you  not  find  him  out  and  tell  him  ?" 

"Yes,  I  can  do  that ;  it  is  my  duty  to  do  it 
at  once.  He  will  know  what  to  do.  Could  the 
signor  remember  the  exact  words  told  to  him 
by  this  person  who  warned  him  ?  That  would 
be  of  great  importance  to  know." 

I  tried  to  repeat,  as  well  as  I  could,  the  exact 
words  Lyndon  had  used.  But  the  attempt  was 
a  failure  ;  I  had  only  a  vague  recollection. 

"Perhaps  the  person  did  not  quite  under- 
stand all  he  was  saying  ?  Perhaps  he  conveyed 
more  than  he  meant  —  or  less?  The  signor 
speaks  Italian  well — oh,  very  well  indeed ;  but 
I  can  discover  that  sometimes  he  uses  a  word 
with  not  quite  the  meaning,  or  more  than  the 
meaning  he  would  express.  Now  this  is  of 
great  moment.  The  person  who  spoke  to  you 
may  have  impressed  on  you  too  much  or  too 
little." 

"  No,  no  ;  there  was  nothing  of  the  kind.  He 
was  not  talking  Italian,  but  English — his  own 
tongue  and  mine." 

The  Italian's  eyes  flamed  again.  He  had 
laid  a  trap  for  me,  and  I  had  blundered  right 
into  it. 

"Thanks,  signor,"  he  said,  rising  from  his 
chair.  "  I  have  now  what  I  would  know.  I 
thought  so !  I  know  who  is  the  man  who  spoke 
in  his  own  tongue,  English,  to  the  signor.  The 
signor  evidently  always  suspected  him  ?  So  did 
I— always.  Adieu,  signor!  The  news  is  ill 
news  that  the  signor  brings ;  but  it  is  not  per- 
haps yet  too  late." 

He  saluted  me  gravely,  and  walked  quickly 
down  the  Champs  Elysees  toward  the  Place  de 
la  Concord,  leaving  me  much  bewildered  with 
doubt  as  to  whether  I  had  done  Salaris  any 
good  after  all ;  whether  Lyndon  was  not  a  vain 


148 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


old  madman,  who  bragged  of  a  capacity  to  c 
harm  which  he  did  not  possess  ;  and  whether 
had  not  handed  the  wretch  over  to  a  venge 
ance  which  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  deserve 
If  I  could  only  see  Salaris  and  speak  with  him 
I  sprang  up,  and  ran  as  fast  as  I  could  after  th 
Italian,  in  the  hope  of  overtaking  him  and  in 
ducing  him  to  confide  to  me  something  of  m 
friend's  whereabouts ;  but  before  I  could  mak 
much  way  through  groups  of  holiday-maker 
and  children  he  had  quite  disappeared.  I  sper 
a  horrible  hour  or  two  in  the  odious  >osition  o 
one  who  just  knows  that  something  evil  or  dan 
gerous  is  going  forward,  and  fancies  he  onl 
wants  a  little  light,  a  little  opening,  to  be  abl 
to  prevent  it,  and  is  groping  here  and  there  t 
no  effect,  while  he  feels  that  every  moment  los 
brings  the  dreaded  thing  nearer.  I  could  d< 
literally  nothing,  and  yet  I  was  so  near  to  be 
ing  able  to  do  something ! 

I  had  engaged  to  sing  the  following  night  in 
London  with  Christina;  otherwise  I  would 
gladly  have  remained  in  Paris,  in  the  faint 
futile  ghost  of  a  hope  of  meeting  Salaris,  anc 
being  perhaps  able  to  prevail  on  him  to  leave 
France  at  once  and  draw  out  of  whatever  enter 
prise  he  had  engaged  in.  Time  ran  on  while  I 
thought  and  debated  with  myself,  and  fretted 
and  fumed  in  this  idle  way  ;  and  at  last  it  came 
.to  this,  that  I  must  either  go  at  once,  or  make 
up  my  mind  to  break  my  engagement,  telegraph 
that  I  could  not  leave  Paris,  and  stay. 

I  adopted  the  resource  of  many  a  puzzled 
and  idle  man,  and  invited  the  Fates  and  Chances 
to  settle  the  question  for  me. 

A  bird  was  swaying  on  the  branch  of  a  chest- 
nut just  in  front  of  me.  He  was  about  to  take 
flight. 

"Come,"  I  said  to  myself,  "if  the  bird  flies 
to  the  right,  I  will  leave  Paris  ;  if  he  flies  to  the 
left,  I  will  remain." 

He  shot  from  the  swinging  bough,  and  flew 
in  the  direction  of  the  Arch  of  Triumph,  on  my 
right. 

I  got  up  instantly,  walked  to  the  Place  de  la 
Concord,  hailed  a  voiture,  and  was  presently  on 
my  way  to  the  terminus  of  the  railway  to  Rouen 
and  Dieppe.  I  crossed  the  Channel  that  night, 
not  without  a  feeling  that  I  was  like  a  man  run- 
ning away  from  the  camp  the  night  before  a 
battle. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 
CHRISTINA'S  LAST  TRIUMPH. 

THIS  had  not  been,  on  the  whole,  a  brilliant 
season  with  Christina.  She  opened  magnifi- 
cently :  her  voice  perfect,  her  physical  powers 
apparently  quite  restored.  A  week  had  hardly 
passed  when  a  change  came,  and  she  was  at- 
tacked at  once  by  hoarseness  and  nervous  weak- 
ness. Then  she  took  a  few  nights'  rest,  and 
apparently  recovered ;  then  she  sang  for  a  night 
or  two  more,  and  fell  back  again.  More  than  I 
once,  when  she  was  announced  for  some  one  of  ' 


her  great  parts,  she  had  to  give  up  at  the  last 
moment,  and  little  printed  notifications  laid  in 
every  box  and  stall  told  disappointed  audiences 
that  this  singer  or  that  had  undertaken  to  act 
as  substitute  for  Madame  Reichstein.  The 
West  End  public  is  at  once  undemonstrative  and 
exacting,  and  Madame  Reichstein  was  openly 
and  generally  accused  of  being  willful,  capri- 
cious, and  ill-tempered.  Stories  were  repeated 
of  the  manner  in  which  she  had  taken  offense 
at  this  or  that  imaginary  slight,  and  peremp- 
torily told  the  manager,  at  the  last  moment, 
that  she  positively  would  not  sing.  She  began 
to  be  quietly  regarded  as  one  on  whom  reliance 
could  not  be  placed ;  whom  success  had  spoiled ; 
who  was  ungrateful  to  her  best  patrons  and  ad- 
mirers. This  sort  of  thing  even  found  its  way 
into  newspapers  ;  and  a  comic  journal  had  some 
pleasantries  about  the  amazement  of  an  aud- 
ience when  Madame  Reichstein,  who  had  been 
announced,  did  actually  sing — and  such  like 
stuff. 

All  this  pained  and  vexed  Christina,  and  of 
course  only  helped  to  make  her  more  nervous, 
and  less  able  to  command  her  physical  resources. 
he  was  simply  the  most  conscientious  artist  I 
<re  ever  known.  She  was  absolutely  without 
the  petty  caprices  and  whims  which  spoil  so 
many  singers,  men  as  well  as  women.  But  she 
was  not  only  too  conscientious  as  an  artist  to 
evade  her  duties ;  she  delighted  in  them ;  they 
were  her  happiness— lately  perhaps  her  only 
happiness.  To  me  my  operatic  parts  were 
mere  drudgery ;  mechanical,  mercenary  toil,  to 
vhich  I  went  reluctantly,  from  which  I  escaped 
with  a  sense  of  relief.  To  her  they  were  ex- 
itement,  exhilaration,  delight.  She  breathed 
reely  on  the  stage,  as  in  some  congenial  and 
elicious  atmosphere.  Her  inability  to  sing 
lever  disappointed  even  the  most  sympathetic 
udience  so  much  as  it  disappointed  herself. 
>he  told  me  often  that  she  had  passed  many 
f  those  evenings  of  disappointment  in  unceasing, 
ncontrollable  tears.  It  was  therefore  a  bitter 
ddition  to  her  trouble  to  be  suspected  of  petu- 
ant  and  unworthy  caprice,  because  of  a  phys- 
cal  weakness  which  grieved  her  to  the  heart. 

Thus  far,  then,  the  season  had  been  fitful 
nd  disappointing.     At  last  Christina  was  per- 
uaded  to  take  a  few  weeks  of  absolute  rest ;  to 
urse  her  voice,  and  give  it  a  fair  chance  to  re- 
over  its  power.     She  felt  convinced,  at  the 
nd  of  the  interval,  that  her  strength  was  quite 
estored,  for  the  time  at  least,  and  she  made  up 
er  mind  to  regain  her  place  before  the  glory 
?  the  season  waned.     A  new  opera  had  for 
time   been   heralded   from  Vienna  and 
aris,  as  full  of  splendid  music  and  grand  dra- 
iatic  effects.     The  bringing  out  of  this  opera 
London  had  been  delayed  hitherto  only  in 
•der  that  Christina  might  have  the  first  part  in 
:  and  the  press  and  the  public  were  beginning 
to  grumble  a  little  over  the  delay.     It  was  now 
announced  at  last,  with  Christina  for  its  heroine 
— it  had  been  rehearsed  and  postponed  again 
and  again— and  it  was  waited  for  with  an  al- 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


149 


most  unparalleled  expectation  and  excitement. 
I  had  the  tenor  part,  which  I  too  had  rehearsed 
ever  so  many  times ;  and  the  first  performance 
was  fixed  for  the  night  after  that  on  which  I 
left  Paris.  My  non-appearance  would  there- 
fore have  been  a  deplorable  disturbance ;  but, 
as  I  have  said,  I  appealed  to  the  oracle  ;  and  I 
reached  London  in  good  time,  none  the  worse 
for  my  hasty  flight  to  Paris. 

The  great  hour  came,  and  with  it  came 
Christina,  resolved  to  reconquer  her  place  at 
any  risk  or  sacrifice. 

You  would  not  have  thought  Christina  Reich- 
stein  had  been  recently  sunk  in  nervous  debility, 
had  you  seen  her  as  she  came  on  the  stage  that 
memorable  evening.  She  had,  in  one  sense, 
her  position  to  retrieve,  and  she  felt  it.  I  knew 
the  moment  I  saw  her  that  she  came  to  con- 
quer ;  and  she  did  conquer.  Hers  was  in  every 
way  that  sympathetic  sensitive  nature  to  which 
any  excitement  lends  momentary  strength  and 
the  capacity  for  the  time  to  prevail.  The  con- 
sciousness that  she  had  to  succeed  was  to  her 
success  itself.  Not  in  her  brightest  days — the 
days  of  her  too  brief  prime — did  she  ever,  I  be- 
lieve, sing  as  she  sang  that  night.  If  in  earlier 
years  her  voice  \vanted  any  thing,  it  wanted  oc- 
casionally a  certain  shading  away  and  tender- 
ness of  tone.  Perhaps  her  condition  of  mind, 
perhaps  even  her  recent  illness,  helped  now  to 
supply  this  want.  I  know  that  the  want  exist- 
ed no  longer.  She  looked  queenly  in  form  as 
she  moved  across  the  stage ;  and  beautiful  in 
the  face  which  recent  illness  had  softened  into 
a  paler  tenderness  than  commonly  belonged  to 
it.  What  is  there  in  the  superstition  of  aris- 
tocracy which  even  still  lurks,  like  the  belief  in 
ghosts,  in  the  instincts  of  most  people  ?  Why, 
this  daughter  of  a  German  toy-maker  looked 
every  inch  a  queen.  A  queen  ?  I  have  seen 
many  queens,  and  not  one  of  them  ever  looked 
so  queenly  as  she  did  that  night.  Her  voice 
thrilled  the  theatre  ;  and  her  noble  lyrical  style, 
inspired  of  the  soul,  free  from  every  trick  and 
artifice  of  the  stage,  uplifted,  one  might  think, 
every  heart  to  its  own  regions  on  its  own  soar- 
ing melody. 

I  felt  a  thorough  pride  in  her  triumph :  all 
the  more  so  because  I  hoped  I  had  in  some  way 
helped  toward  it.  Lately,  too,  my  heart  was 
beginning  to  be  filled  with  affection  and  pity 
for  her,  and  sorrow  for  her.  Love  that  had 
died  had  sent  its  pale  ghost  of  pure  and  pitying 
friendship  to  haunt  her  and  watch  over  her. 

I  clasped  her  hand  in  delight  and  congratu- 
lation at  the  close  of  the  first  act,  and  she  re- 
turned the  pressure  with  no  less  warmth. 

"  See,"  said  she,  "how  exuberant  I  am  in 
my  delight ;  I  have  cut  my  hand  !"  She  drew 
off  her  glove  and  held  up  one  hand,  and  I  saw 
tiny  drops  of  blood  trickling  down  her  white 
fingers. 

"  It  was  my  ring  that  did  it :  it  cut  through 
glove  and  all.  Salaris's  ring — look  at  his  min- 
iature." She  touched  a  spring,  and  a  tiny 
iocket,  set  among  brilliants  in  the  ring,  flew 


open,  and  showed  me  a  little  miniature  of  the 
grave,  melancholy,  manly  face  of  her  hus- 
band. 

"Salaris  reproves  me,"  she  continued,  faint- 
ly smiling,  "  for  forgetting  him  in  a  poor  stage- 
triumph.  But  he  would  not  blame  me,  if  he 
knew  all,  Emanuel.  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  .devote  myself  to  him  for  the  rest  of  my  life. 
The  curtain  falls  for  me  with  this  season.  I 
will  sing  no  more.  I  have  vowed  a  vow,  Eman- 
uel, and  I  will  keep  it.  If  Heaven  brings  him 
safe  out  of  his  present  enterprise  I  will  devote 
myself  to  him,  and  be  for  the  rest  of  my  life 
what  I  have  not  yet  truly  been — his  wife." 

Her  face  flushed  as  she  spoke,  and  her  eyes 
fell. 

"You  have  not  received  any  message  from 
him  ?"  I  asked,  not  caring  to  encourage  her  to 
dwell  upon  this  proffered  one-sided  bargain  with 
the  powers  above. 

"  Not  yet ;  but  I  think  I  may  rely  upon  re- 
ceiving rews  from  him  in  some  way  to-night. 
You  shall  know  what  I  hear  as  soon  as  it  reaches 
me." 

She  did  not  know  how  lately  I  had  been  to 
Paris :  I  had  no  motive  or  heart  to  tell  her. 

We  separated  just  then.  I  need  not  speak 
of  the  progress  of  the  second  act.  Enough  to 
say,  that  Christina  made  it  a  promenade  of  tri- 
umph, a  conqueror's  procession  for  her. 

And  then  the  news  of  Salaris  came  at  last. 
I  had  hardly  quitted  her  when  many  mouths 
told  me  of  it.  It  had  been  made  publicly 
known  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  had 
been  flashed  to  the  Opera,  the  theatres,  and 
the  clubs.  It  had  throbbed  along  the  tele- 
graph wires  only  too  quickly;  and  it  was,  for 
all  its  haste,  but  too  true.  Yes,  we  heard  not 
from  Christina's  husband,  but  of  him,  that  fatal 
night.  The  new  grand  project  for  the  liberty 
of  Italy  had  exploded  in  the  bombs  of  an  as- 
sassin ;  and  the  great  obstacle  which  was  to  be 
removed  from  the  way  of  the  young  liberty  was 
standing  in  the  way  still !  In  a  word,  an  insane 
and  monstrous  attempt  had  been  made  that  very 
night  in  Paris — an  attempt  at  what  was  believed 
to  be  the  slaying  of  a  despot ;  and  it  had  only 
ended  in  the  slaughter  of  some  half-dozen  people, 
the  very  worst  of  whom,  in  patriotic  eyes,  were 
but  poor  police  officials,  the  humble  menials  of 
despotism,  who  would  have  served  liberty  just 
as  faithfully  as  they  served  tyranny  if  they  had 
but  the  chance.  And  Salaris's  name  was  named 
as  that  of  the  soul  and  leader  of  the  conspir- 
acy. 

The  curtain  was  already  up  for  the  last  act? 
and  I  had  no  time  to  find  out  whether  the  news 
had  reached  Christina,  or  to  endeavor  to  pre- 
vent it  from  reaching  her.  Indeed,  my  time 
was  come.  I  was  already  expected  on  the 
j  stage,  and  I  was  almost  out  of  breath  and  out 
of  capacity  for  my  part  when  I  came  on.  She 
i  was  there  before  me.  She  had  yet  heard  no- 
'  thing.  Her  eyes  only  expressed  surprise  and 
good-humored  rebuke  at  the  awkwardness  of 
the  position  in  which  my  momentary  delay  had 


150 


endeavoring  to  sing.  She  looked  more  sur- 
prised, and  even  a  little  petulant.  I  endeav- 
ored to  do  better,  and  succeeded  tolerably. 
The  scene  got  through  somehow  ;  but  I  fear 
that  if  I  helped  the  prima  donna  in  the  other 
scenes,  I  was  rather  a  damaging  influence  in 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 

gasped  and  choked  in  r  the  words,  and  the  manner  and  tone  which  ac- 


this. 

She  did  not  appear  in  the  next  scene  ;  I  did. 
Then  came  the  last. 

She  returned  ;  and  I  saw  at  the  first  glance 
that  all  was  known.     What  a  gaze  that  was 
which  met  mine!      Her  face  was  rigid  and 
livid  ;  her  eyes  were  lit  with  a  low  pale  fire, 
such  as  one  might  imagine  gleaming  from  the 
eyes  of  the  dead  restored  for  a  moment  to  life. 
I  scarcely  understood  how  any  one  could  look 
at  her  and  not  shudder  ;  I  can  not  still  under- 
stand how  any  one  could  look  at  her  and  fail 
to  see  that  some  terrible  agony  burned  in  thos 
glittering  eyes.     I  had  to  take  her  hand 
was  cold  as  death  ;  it  gave  back  not  the  faint 
est  return  to  the  pressure  with  which  I  endeav 
ored  to  assure  her  of  sympathy,  and  to  offe 
some  poor  encouragement. 

The  house  applauded  her  all  the  more  fo 
the  deep  and  genuine  tragedy  that  was  writte 
in  her  face. 

"How  devilish  well  Reichstein  makes  up! 
I  distinctly  heard  a  swell  say  in  one  of  the 
stage-boxes.      "How  does  she  make  hersell 
look  so  ghastly  all  in  a  moment  ?" 

It  was  some  piece  of  lyric  agony,  some  ca 
tastrophe  of  separation  and  broken  hearts  and 
love  and  death  ;  no  matter  what.  Those  whc 
saw  her,  all  but  myself,  accepted  her  pallic 
cheeks  and  spectral  gleaming  eyes  as  the  verj 
triumph  of  theatrical  art.  At  first  her  voice 
choked  and  trembled;  then  sounded  hollow, 
ghostly,  heart-rending.  Oh,  but  it  suited  the 
part  she  had  to  play,  and  the  house  first  listened 
in  a  deep  awe-stricken  silence,  and  then  broke 
into  a  murmur  of  awakening  applause. 

She  had  determined  to  go  through  with  the 
task.  Whether  her  husband  was  dead  or  liv- 
ing, escaped  or  a  prisoner,  really  guilty  or  not 
guilty,  she  could  not  know;  but  a  feeling  of 
desperate  loyalty  to  him  and  his  secrets  and 
their  secret  relationship  constrained  her  to  give, 
if  possible,  no  sign  which  might  reveal  any  thing 
that  perhaps  he,  if  living  still,  would  have  con- 
cealed. She  told  me  afterward  that  in  all  the 
agony  of  horror  and  doubt,  one  thought  came 
up  clearly  in  her  mind—  that  if  her  husband 
were  yet  alive,  it  might  perhaps  be  somehow 
in  her  power  to  help  him  to  escape,  if  only  she 
could  still  keep  their  relationship  a  secret.  She 
told  me,  too,  that  from  the  first  moment  she  felt 
convinced  that  he  had  been  drawn  innocently 
and  as  an  instrument  into  that  plot  ;  and  what- 
ever might  be  his  illusions  or  his  plans,  he  had 
never  been  knowingly  a  party  to  an  assassina- 
tion. 

I  confess  I  did  not  think  so.  The  words  he 
had  let.  fall  about  the  obstacle  to  be  removed 
now  came  back  to  my  mind  with  fearful  force  ; 


companied  them.  I  remembered,  too,  that  he 
told  me  there  were  things  no  man  bat  an  Ital- 
ian might  be  asked  to  do  for  Italy. 

What  I  did  wonder  at  was  the  nature  of  the 
projected  tyrannicide ;  the  reckless,  indiscrim- 
inate, cowardly  slaughter  of  the  innocent,  in 
the  wild  hope  of  including  the  guilty  among 
them.  ^  I  could,  after  what  I  had  heard,  be- 
lieve in  Salaris  planning  and  trying  to  exe- 
cute a  deed  of  tyrannicide  in  the  high  Ro- 
man fashion ;  I  could  think  of  him  as  a  Bru- 
tus ;  I  found  it  hard  indeed  to  believe  in  him 
as  a  Fieschi. 

Christina  went  on  with  her  task.      Many, 
many  have  indeed  come  forward  to  the  foot- 
lights as  she  did,  and  bending  down  with  hands 
clasped  upon  a  bursting  heart,  have  warbled 
their  notes  of  lyric  joy,  or  love,  or  grief,  while 
agony  of  true  human  sorrow  was  helping  to 
produce  the  convulsive  throbs  which  the  audi- 
ence wondered  and  delighted  to  hear.     Men 
and  women  have  acted  their  parts   through, 
desperately,  to  the  end ;  have  stifled  physical 
agony,  and  struggled  with  the  convulsions  which 
they  knew  to  be  the  beatings  of  death  at  their 
door,  and  made  life  triumph,  at  least  until  the 
fall  of  the  curtain.     All  this,  one  might  say, 
is  but  commonplace  and  elementary  in  the  story 
of  the  stage.     But  how  few  have  ever  had  a 
torture  such  as  hers  to  conceal !     To  hear  such 
tidings  but  by  half,  and  to  crush  down  anxiety 
and  the  passion  of  fear,  and  to  make  them  serve 
to  work  along  the  mechanical  passion  and  pain 
of  the  drama,  like  agonized  captives  compelled 
to  row  the  galley  of  the  conqueror,  or  to  chant 
the  celebration  of  his  triumph !     Was  she  sing- 
ing, or  only  crying  aloud  in  the  anguish  which 
could  not  be  repressed  ?     I  hardly  knew :  but 
I  know  that  such  a  rapturous  audience  I  never 
beheld;    such  a  triumph  I  never  assisted  in. 
Even  then  a  sense  came  strangely  over  my  mind 
of  the  marvelous  grotesquerie,  the  farouche  hu- 
mor of  the  whole  scene,  as  I  glanced  around, 
and  saw  that  vast  house  filled  with  people  who 
applauded  to  the  repeating  echo  what  they  be- 
lieved to  be  the  triumph  of  stage  simulation, 
what  I  believed  to  be  the  very  death-cry  of  the 
)roken  heart.     At  one  moment — it  belonged 
o  the  situation — her  head  dropped  upon  my 
ihoulder,  and  tears,  the  most  genuine  that  ever 
ell  on  a  stage,  trickled  on  my  tragedy  trap- 
)ings.     And  I  yelled,  as  best  I  might,  my  lyric 
arewell ;  and  the  audience  applauded,  as  en- 
husiastically  as  a  fashionable   audience   ever 
ould  applaud  ;  and  she  clung  around  me  with 
ucli  passionate  force  that  I  could  hardly  tear 
tiyself  away,  while  her  voice  soared  and  shook 
nd  trembled  in  the  air  as  if  music  itself  were 
ttering  its  farewell  to  life.     I  did  just  for  one 
noment  release  myself,  that  the  need  of  the 
cene  might  be  satisfied,  and  I  stood  for  an 
nstant  out  of  the  sight  of  the  spectators  until 
curtain  came  down  amidst  new  bursts  of 
pplause,  and  I  sprang  forward  just  in  time  to 
atch  her  in  my  arms  as  she  fell  in  a  faint. 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


151 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE    OLD    SONG. 

IN  a  day  or  two  it  became  known  about  town, 
and  was  mentioned  in  most  of  the  papers,  that 
Madame  Reichstein  hid  exerted  herself  too 
much  after  her  recent  illness,  had  overtasked 
her  strength  and  fallen  ill  again,  and  was  or- 
dered by  her  medical  men  to  take  absolute  re- 
pose for  some  time. 

Indeed,  she  was  for  many  days  very,  very 
unwell.  She  was  brought  down  to  almost  ut- 
ter prostration,  with  frequent  faintings  and 
blood-spitting;  and  lay  sometimes  in  a  coma- 
tose condition  for  hours  and  hours,  during 
which  absolutely  nothing  could  be  done  for 
her.  I  did  not  see  her  during  all  this  time, 
but  I  called  many  times  each  day ;  and  I  saw 
her  medical  men,  and  they  told  me  frankly 
that  her  life  trembled  on  a  mere  chance— that 
the  probabilities  seemed  to  be  that  she  would 
die.  I  did  not  know  then,  but  I  came  to  know 
after,  that  she  had  long  suffered  from  a  serious 
chronic  complaint,  which  over-exertion  or  ex- 
citement of  any  kind  was  sure  to  aggravate  and 
might  render  fatal. 

Yet  she  did  not  die.  She  grew  better.  Dar- 
ing the  worst  two  or  three  days  she  had  been 
almost  wholly  unconscious  —  happily  uncon- 
scious, perhaps.  Before  she  had  gained  men- 
tal and  bodily  strength  enough  to  understand 
all  that  had  passed,  there  was  news  which  it 
was  good  for  her  to  hear. 

Gradually  the  full  story  of  what  had  hap- 
pened in  Paris  came  in  upon  us.  First  as 
concerned  us  was  the  fact  that  Christina's  hus- 
band had  not  been  taken ;  had  not  been  actu- 
ally seen  at  all  on  the  spot  when  the  conspiracy 
exploded,  of  which  he  was  named  as  the  fore- 
most leader.  Those  who  had  been  arrested 
were  to  be  immediately  tried,  and  it  was  known 
that  rewards,  were  held  out  for  the  capture  of 
several  others — highest  reward  of  all  for  the 
capture  of  Salaris. 

I  was  glad  to  believe  that  my  warning  had, 
after  all,  been  the  means  probably  of  saving  my 
friend's  life.  I  was  glad  to  find  that  most  peo- 
ple in  London  who  had  known  any  thing  of  the 
Italian  cordially  and  at  once  acquitted  him  of 
any  complicity  whatever  in  the  attempt  at  as- 
sassination. Some  were  indignant  at  the  bare 
idea  of  such  a  thing ;  declared  Salaris  a  man 
of  honor  wholly  above  such  a  suspicion ;  and 
asserted  that  the  dragging  of  his  name  into 
the  business  was  a  paltry  scheme  of  the  French 
Government  to  discredit  and  defame  an  honor- 
able and  gallant  enemy.  Many  went  so  far  as 
to  say  that  the  whole  thing  was  a  "plant"  from 
beginning  to  end ;  that  the  alleged  conspirators 
were  the  hirelings  of  mouchards;  that  the  deaths 
which  had  taken  place  were  mere  accident,  the 
result  of  an  unforeseen  bungle  ;  that  nobody 
would  be  executed  ;  that  Cayenne  or  Toulon 
and  forced  labor  would  mean  in  the  case  of  the 
convicted  persons  a  quiet  well-pensioned  retire- 
ment into  obscurity ;  and  that  the  plot  had  been 


got  up  only  to  bring  discredit  on  the  Revolu- 
ion,  and  to  justify  the  French  Government  in 
he  eyes  of  Europe  for  any  severity  of  repres- 
sion it  might  afterward  find  it  convenient  to 
idopt.  Salaris  had  been  a  favorite  in  Lon- 
don ;  he  had  been  admired  by  the  West  End, 
and  had  always  demeaned  himself  like  a  brave 
nan  and  a  modest  gentleman  ;  the  account  of 
lis  former  escape  from  prison  had  been  the 
sensation  of  a  season,  disconcerting  even  the 
African  travelers  and  the  new  poetsj_there  was 
lothing  whatever  about  him  of  the  melodramat- 
c  conspirator  or  the  Leicester  Square  refugee  ; 
and  in  some  quite  unusual  way  patriotism  and 
respectability  seemed  to  blend  in  his  person. 
So  that  London  generally  curled  the  lip  of  quiet 
contempt  at  the  story  of  my  friend's  complicity 
in  the  great  assassination. 

One  incident  connected  with  the  whole  busi- 
icss  seemed  to  have  come  miraculously  to  con- 
firm this  view.  Had  the  French  police  really 
desired  to  convince  England  that  there  was 
sham  in  the  affair,  they  could  not  have  done 
any  thing  better  than  just  what  they  did.  For 
the  very  night  of  the  catastrophe,  and  before 
the  dead  and  wounded  had  yet  been  well  re- 
moved from  the  scene,  they  hastened  to  the 
Hotel  Bristol  in  the  Place  Vendome,  and  ar- 
ested  Mr.  George  Stamford  Lyndon,  English 
deputy  of  Parliament,  as  an  accomplice  in  a 
plot  to  assassinate  the  chief  of  the  French  Gov- 
irnment. 

London  received  the  news  first  with  a  cry  of 
ndignation,  next  with  a  burst  of  laughter,  and 
then  again  with  a  cry  of  indignation.  Before 
many  days  had  elapsed  Mr.  Lyndon  himself 
appeared  in  person  on  the  floor  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  and  told  his  own  story :  the  sto- 
ry of  his  arrest,  and  of  his  release.  I  read  his 
speech ;  and  I  must  say  it  was  moderate, 
straightforward,  and  gentlemanlike.  He  told 
the  House  that  he  scorned  even  to  pledge  his 
word  as  an  English  ^gentleman  that  he  had 
never  had  any  part  in,  or  known  any  thing  of 
any  plot  to  murder.  And  the  House  applaud- 
ed the  manful  scorn  and  energy  of  his  tone. 
When  he  said,  "I  pass  by  that  now  and  for- 
ever," the  House  cheered  again.  But  he  frank- 
ly owned  that  he  had  been  a  sympathizer  with 
Italian  schemes  for  independence  ;  that  he  had 
given  somewhat  largely  to  the  cause ;  and  that 
he  had  done  his  best  to  assist  men  who  here  in 
England  were  endeavoring  to  promote  a  rising 
against  the  Austrians  in  Lombardy  and  Vene- 
tia.  He  had  endeavored  to  do,  he  said,  for 
Italian  independence,  what  members  of  her 
Majesty's  present  Government  had  done  not 
so  many  years  back  for  Greek  independence ; 
and  this  he  was  not  ashamed  of  doing,  and 
would  always  continue  to  do.  Naturally,  there- 
fore, he  had  been  in  correspondence  with  many 
Italian  exiles,  among  the  rest  with  some  who 
were  now  accused  of  being  accomplices  in  the 
assassination  plot.  This  doubtless  explained 
his  arrest.  He  had  no  complaint  to  make  of 
the  French  authorities.  He  had  given  them 


152 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


precisely  the  same  explanation  he  now  gave 
the  House ;  and  had  only  added  that  he  was 
ready  at  any  time  whatever  to  take  his  trial  in 
Paris,  if  the  French  Government  thought  prop- 
er to  make  any  charge  against  him  of  conspira- 
cy with  murderers.  His  explanation  had  been 
courteously  received,  and  he  was  at  .once  de- 
clared at  liberty.  He  had  no  complaint  to 
make.  He  had,  on  the  contrary,  every  allow- 
ance to  make  for  the  excitement  of  the  French 
authorities  at  such  a  time ;  and,  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned,  he  thought  the  whole  subject 
deserved  no  further  discussion. 

Many  people  expected  that  something  else 
was  coming.  Every  body  knew  of  the  close 
intimacy  between  Lyndon  and  Salaris.  Every 
one,  therefore,  expected  to  hear  from  Lyndon  an 
emphatic  declaration  of  his  confidence  in  his 
friend's  innocence,  and  an  indignant  repudia- 
tion of  the  charge  made  against  him.  Every 
one  was  disappointed  :  Mr.  Lyndon  never  men- 
tioned Salaris's  name  ;  and  only  repudiated  the 
charge  of  conspiracy  to  assassinate  when  it  ap- 
plied to  himself. 

"Cautious  old  humbug,  that  Lyndon  is, "a 
journalist  of  some  note  remarked  to  me  that 
night  at  a  club  which  I  frequented.  "I've 
just  been  to  the  House,  and  heard  his  explana- 
tion. Of  course  it  was  all  right;  and  the 
House  cheered  him  immensely.  But  would 
you  believe  it,  he  never  said  one  syllable  on  be- 
half of  poor  Salaris.  He  knows  perfectly  well 
that  Salaris  is  as  incapable  of  any  share  in  that 
rascally  business  as  he  himself,  or  as  you  or  I  ; 
and  yet  he  never  said  a  word  on  his  behalf! 
The  fact  is,  he  thinks  this  business  makes  Ital- 
ian patriotism  of  all  kinds  seem  rather  disrep- 
utable in  our  British  eyes,  and  he  would  not 
utter  a  word  which  might  appear  to  make  him 
responsible  for  the  character  of  any  individual 
Italian." 

My  friend  expressed,  I  think,  the  common 
feeling.  I  did  not  blame  Lyndon ;  and  though 
of  course  I  never  openly  dissented  from  the  gen- 
eral belief  in  Salaris's  innocence,  I  could  not  in 
my  heart  acquit  him.  The  whole  thing  was  a 
wonder  and  mystery  to  me.  First,  that  Salaris 
could  for  any  purpose  become  a  party  to  such  a 
plot;  next,  that  having  promoted  it,  and  in 
some  inconceivable  way  reconciled  his  own  soul 
and  conscience,  and  sense  of  honor  and  human- 
ity, to  it,  he  should  have  held  back  from  taking 
a  personal  part  in  it ;  lastly,  that  having  direct- 
ed the  playing  of  the  game,  he  should  have 
shrunk  from  the  paying  of  the  forfeit. 

But  this,  4oo,  came  to  be  explained  at  last 
By  safe  means  a  letter  came  to  Christina',, 
hand,  on  which  no  eyes  but  hers  and  mine  ever 
glanced,  and  which  contained  much  that,  for 
the  present  at  least,  perhaps  forever,  must  re 
main  a  secret.  What  especially  concerned  us 
Avas  that  it  explained  Salaris's  own  part  in  the 
transaction.  He  had  left  Paris  not  after,  but 
before,  the  deed  ;  he  had  gone  in  despair  and 
disgust ;  he  had  planned  and  urged,  and  volun- 
teered for.  a  deed  of  what  he  called  and  be- 


lieved to  be  national  vengeance  and  personal 
sacrifice,  quite,  as  indeed  I  had  believed,  after 
the  high  Roman  fashion.     He  offered  himself, 
or  himself  and  the  man  Benoni,  to  lead  the  way, 
to  attempt  the  deed  personally ;   others,  if  he 
failed,  to  follow  the  example.     To  do  or  die 
was  not  his  purpose,  but  to  do  and  die.     But 
he  could  not  animate  those  who  were  his  asso- 
ciates with  this  high,  desperate  resolve.     They 
were  for  taking  into  consideration  the  element 
of  personal  safety;  to  do  the  deed,  and  if  pos- 
sible escape.     Therefore  they  planned  a  wild, 
indiscriminate  slaughter,  in  which  the  one  ene- 
my might  perish,  and  the  murderers  might  escape. 
All  this  seemed  to  Salaris  as  frivolous  as  it  was 
hideous.     It  made  a  murder  what  he  thought  a 
sacrifice.     To  him  the  one  essential  condition 
distinguishing  the  tyrannicide  from  the-  assassin 
was  that  the  former  must  devote  his  own  life  to 
secure  the  death  of  the  tyrant,  and  of  the  tyrant 
alone.     He  did  his  best  to  persuade  them  to 
abandon  their  project,  over  which  indeed  he 
sickened,  and  he  still  thought  to  carry  out  his 
own.     But  my  warning  reached  him,  and  he 
opened  his  eyes  and  saw  that  he  was  watched. 
He  left  Paris  in  time,  postponing,  not  abandon- 
ing, his  design;  and  the  night  after  he  had  left 
the  city  came  the  catastrophe,  as  much  of  a  sur- 
prise and  a  horror  to  him  as  to  Europe  in  gen- 
eral.   He  would  have  been  a  Brutus,  a  Scasvola ; 
and  behold,  he  saw  his  name  branded  as  that 
of  a  Faux. 

He  was,  then,  guilty  of  the  intent  to  kill  a 
crowned  and  sceptred  man.     Would   such  a 
deed  have  been  wholly,  utterly  guilty  and  base  ? 
I  do  not  stop  to  inquire  into  that  moral  ques- 
tion ;  I  never  was  much  of  a  moral  philosopher ; 
I  know  Salaris  was  not  a  base  and  evil  man, 
and  I  know  what  we  are  all  taught  at  school  to 
think  of  Brutus.     But  there  are  anachronisms 
of  deed  which  it  is,  ipso  facto,  something  like  a 
crime  to  commit ;  and  just  such  a  crime  had 
Salaris  planned.     I  know  from  his  letter  that 
he  was  glad  now  he  had  not  done  the  deed  ;  I 
feel  sure  his  intended  victim  would  have  been 
safe,  alone  and  unarmed,  in  his  presence  for- 
ever after.     There  are  things  which  we  never 
fully  understand  till  we  see  them  caricatured ; 
I  think  Salaris  understood  at  last  the  true  na- 
ture of  his  projected  piece  of  antique  devotion 
when  he  saw  it  caricatured  in  outlines  of  blood. 
But  he  declared  his  firm  conviction,  a  con- 
viction never  to  be  shaken,  that  the  catastrophe 
itself  had  been  encouraged,  fostered,  and  actu- 
ally brought  to  a  head  by  the  agents  of  the 
French  Government.     They  had  done  it,  he 
said,  to  bring  disgrace  and  odium  on  the  Ital- 
ian patriots,  and  to  prevent  other  attempts  more 
direct  and  desperate  from  being  made.     This 
he  insisted  on,  and  he  supported  his  belief  by 
evidences  which  I  can  not  report.     He  added 
his  conviction  that  one  man,  an  Englishman, 
had  been  a  prime  mover  in  the  plot  on  behalf 
of  the  agents  of  the  police.     To  all  this  I  at- 
tached not  too  much  importance.     It  looked 
wildly  improbable ;  yet  what  could  be  more  im- 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


153 


probable  than  those  passages  of  the  story  which 
had  actually  happened  ?  I  neither  believed 
nor  disbelieved ;  I  wa«  glad  he  had  escaped 
and  had  no  part  in  the  bloody  business,  and 
had  at  the  very  worst  only  planned  and  dreamed 
to  be  a  tyrannicide,  not  an  indiscriminate  slayer. 

At  one  time,  he  said,  his  feelings  of  horror 
at  the  deed  were  such  that  he  determined  to 
give  himself  up  to  the  French  Government,  and, 
proclaiming  boldly  what  he  had  really  planned 
to  do,  insist  upon  being  tried,  that  it  might 
be  made  clear  he  had  no  part  in  what  was 
actually  done.  But  his  friends — he  had  some 
knot  of  friends  every  where — reasoned  him  out 
of  this  scheme  of  foolish  chivalry.  They  con- 
vinced him  that  if  he  surrendered  himself,  the 
French  Government  would  most  assuredly  con- 
trive to  convict  him  of  the  very  crime  he  de- 
tested, all  the  more  because  he  detested  it ; 
and  then  came  to  his  hand  the  evidences,  such 
as  they  were,  which  satisfied .  him  and  those 
around  him  that  the  most  hideous  part  of  the 
business  was  the  outcome  of  a  police  plot.  He 
had  resolved  then  at  last  to  leave  the  scenes  of 
so  many  unavailing  and  abortive  struggles  for- 
ever, or,  if  not  forever,  until  some  auspicious 
hour  should  arrive  when  a  brave,  true-hearted 
man  could  make  a  sacrifice  for  his  country  with 
hope  and  without  shame. 

I  visited  Christina  every  day  while  she  was 
recovering,  and  sometimes  sat  with  her  alone 
for  a  few  minutes.  She  recovered  slowly,  but 
very  steadily,  from  the  influence  of  overexcite- 
ment,  mental  and  physical,  and  began  to  resume 
her  brightness  both  of  look  and  manner.  She 
lay  upon  a  sofa,  still  weak  indeed ;  but  with 
something  of  the  reaction  which  follows  natu- 
rally any  better  modification  of  evil  news  stim- 
ulating her,  she  was  cheerful  and  almost  joyous. 
Her  manner,  too,  had  lost  much  of  the  constraint 
which  used  to  disfigure  it,  and  cause  it  to  seem 
affected  of  late.  She  looked  now  to  me  more 
like  the  old  Christina  than  she  had  been  since 
we  both  were  much  younger. 

One  of  the  days  when  I  came  to  see  her,  I 
found  her  reading  a  letter,  and  looking  flushed 
and  excited  over  it. 

"Look  at  this  letter,  Emanuel,"  she  said; 
"and  tell  me  whether  I  ought  to  laugh  or  cry. 
Stay,  you  could  not  understand  it  without  some 
explanation.  It  is  from  our  dear  friend,  Mr. 
Lyndon.  Now  listen,  and  then  you  shall  read 
it.  When  I  heard  that  dreadful  story  from 
Paris,  one  of  my  first  thoughts  was,  that  I  had 
unconsciously  entangled  him  in  the  business  ; 
and  that  he  would  believe  I  had  purposely  de- 
ceived him.  This  rested  heavily  on  my  mind  ; 
and  as  soon  as  I  could  hold  a  pen,  I  wrote  him 
a  letter,  assuring  him  that  I  was  as  innocent  and 
ignorant  an  agent  in  the  matter  as  himself; 
and  I  asked  him  to  come  and  see  me.  He 
might  have  come,  might  he  not,  for  the  kind- 
ness of  old  recollections  ?  To-day,  at  last,  he 
sends  me  his  reply.  There  it  is ;  read  it.  No 
— don't  hesitate ;  I  want  you  to  read  it — I  ask 
vou  to  read  it." 


I  took  the  letter  in  my  hand.  There  was 
not  much  to  read  ;  it  was  this : 

"CONNATTGHT  PLACE. 

"DEAR  MADAME, — I  regret  that  I  am  unable 
to  do  myself  the  honor  of  visiting  you.  I  can 
not  think,  however,  that  much  good  could  come 
of  an  interview,  or  that  any  very  satisfactory 
explanations  could  be  exchanged.  It  is  clear 
that  I  was  grossly  deceived,  and  that  my  own 
credulity  was  much  to  blame.  I  do  not  much 
care  to  inquire  into  the  relative  share  which  we 
all  had  in  the  delusion.  You  are,  no  doubt, 
innocent  of  any  knowledge  of  the  detestable 
plot  which  I  was  made  the  means  of  helping 
and  promoting ;  but  there  were  deceptions  prac- 
ticed on  ine  of  another  kind,  and  of  which  I  pre- 
sume you  do  not  feel  ashamed.  I  am,  howev- 
er, ashamed  of  having  been  so  deceived.  I  am 
conscious  of  having  rendered  myself  ridiculous, 
and  I  deserve  to  be  laughed  at.  But  I  prefer 
being  laughed  at  behind  my  back  rather  than  to 
my  face  ;  and  therefore  I  take  with  a  good  grace 
the  lesson  I  have  received,  and  have  the  honor 
to  remain 

"Your  obedient  servant, 

"GEORGE  STAMFORD  LYNDON." 

I  read  the  letter  through,  then  turned  back  to 
the  first  sentence,  and  read  it  again. 

"  Your  judgment,  Emanuel  ?  Am  I  to  laugh 
or  cry  ?" 

"It  is  an  insult,  that  is  certain;  and  it  is 
characteristic ;  but  I  can  not  help  asking,  is  it 
quite  undeserved  ?" 

"No,  not  undeserved;  and  therefore  all  the 
harder  to  be  borne.  I  suppose  I  did  allow  this 
vain  and  selfish  old  man  to  flirt  with  me,  or  to 
think  he  was  flirting  with  me.  I  did  not  dis- 
like him  ;  indeed,  his  companionship  sometimes 
pleased  me.  I  was  embittered  with  life  in  many 
ways,  and  I  found  his  sharp  cynicism  congeni- 
al. I  flattered  him  and  paid  court  to  him,  and 
I  allowed  him  to  flatter  me  and  pay  court  to 
me.  I  did  it  to  win  the  man  over  to  our  cause 
— at  least,  to  my  husband's  cause — and  to  make 
him  useful  to  projects  about  which,  Heaven 
knows,  I  knew  little,  and  cared  just  as  little. 
I  did  not  see  through  him  at  the  first.  He  even 
paid  me  attentions  which,  if  my  husband  had 
but  known — well,  I  am  ashamed  of  the  whole 
thing  now,  and  I  was  many  times  ashamed  and 
annoyed  when  I  saw  your  eyes  fixed  on  me ; 
and  I  often  feared  that  you  would  think  far, 
far  worse  of  me  than  I  deserved,  and  despise 
me.  Yet  you  might  have  trusted  me,  even 
without  explanation." 

"  Beati  sunt,"  I  could  not  help  murmuring, 
in  some  bitterness,  "  qui  non  videi'unt." 

"  Still  you  think  harshly  of  me  ?" 

"  I  am  sorry  you  ever  descended  to  any  de- 
ceit, Christina.  I  am  sorry  you  ever  stooped 
for  any  purpose  to  flatter  the  vanity  of  that  self- 
ish and  sensuous  old  man.  It  was  a  degrada- 
tion ;  it  lowered  you ;  and  I  could  forgive  no- 
thing that  made  you  seem  unworthy." 


154 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


"It  was  meant,  at  least,"  she  said,  in  an  ap 
pealing,  plaintive  tone,  "as  a  sort  of  expiation 
to  my  husband.  I  thought  I  might  in  some 
way  help  him  in  his  plans,  and  by  a  little  harm- 
less deception  bring  him  a  useful  ally.  I  an 
ashamed  of  it  now ;  but  I  hardly  thought  of  ii 
then;  and,  indeed,  I  thought  he  saw  through 
me  at  last,  as  I  did  through  him,  and  that  nei- 
ther took  the  other  au  serieux.  Yet  you,  Eman- 
uel,"  she  added,  suddenly  and  bitterly,  "have 
no  reason  to  be  sorry ;  if  I  deceived  him,  I  think 
I  undeceived  you." 

I  made  no  answer.  What  she  said  was  true. 
It  was  when  I  watched  her  manner  with  Mr. 
Lyndon  that  I  first  began  to  doubt  the  strength 
of  my  love  for  her.  The  very  day  I  first  sav 
her  with  him  at  Bichmond  something  told  me 
that  she  was— as  I  wyote  it  then — not  my  Li- 
sette  any  more. 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  mine,  and  I  did  not 
look  up  to  meet  them.  She  knew  what  thoughts 
were  passing  through  my  mind.  She  took  Lyn- 
don's letter  and  tore  it  in  pieces. 

"That  is  gone,  and  with  it  go  the  memo- 
ries," she  said.  "You  must  forget  this,  Eman- 
uel ;  and  you  must  remember  me  only  as  I  was 
before  I  had  ever  learned  to  practice  any  deceit. 
There  was  such  a  time !  Think  of  me  only  as 
I  was  then ;  and  tell  Lilla  Lyndon  of  what  I 
was  then.  Thank  Heaven,  my  deceits  never 
went  far.  Do  you  know  how  I  think  of  myself 
often  ?  As  one  of  the  people  we  read  of  in  the 
old  stories  of  my  country,  who  sold  their  souls 
to  the  demon,  but  contrived  by  the  help  of  some 
saint  or  pious  monk  to  cheat  him  in  the  end. 
Well,  I  sold  my  soul  to  ambition  and  vanity; 
but  by  the  help  of  penitence  and  faith,  I  hope  I 
have  redeemed  it  at  the  last.  Stay ;  don't  say 
any  thing  more ;  I  am  going  to  sing  something 
for  you.  Yes,  I  am  quite  well  and  strong,  and 
I  mean  to  sing  for  you  something  that  shall  be 
a  memory." 

It  was  growing  to  evening,  the  twilight  was 
deepening. 

"No  melancholy  song,"  she  said.  "We 
must  not  be  melancholy  to-night,  for  we  have 
reason  to  be  happy.  You  surely  have,  and  I 
too ;  for  my  dear,  noble-hearted  Salaris  has  es- 
caped from  a  great  danger  and  a  great  wrong ; 
and  he  is  not  the  only  one,"  I  heard  her  mur- 
mur to  herself  as  she  sat  down  to  the  piano ; 
"  not  the  only  one— not  the  only  one." 

She  took  out  a  faded  old  piece  of  music,  rat- 
tled some  lively  notes,  and  broke  into  a  viva- 
cious song.  What  was  the  song  the  great  prima 
donna  chose  to  sing  for  me?  What  but  the 
very  song  I  had  heard  her  sing  in  the  old  sea- 
port concert-room  long  ago,  when  she  sang  me 
into  the  poetic  madness  of  first  love  !  I  listen- 
ed with  feelings  no  words  could  speak.  The 
whole  scene  was  around  me ;  and  I  saw  through 
the  haze  and  smoke  of  years,  and  confused 
memories,  and  bewildering  associations,  clearlv 
as  then  through  a  more  material  and  vulgar 
smoke-film,  the  bright-eyed  young  singer  again. 

"  Do  you  remember  it  ?"  she  asked.     "  Yes, 


I  know  you  do ;  and  I  give  it  to  you  now,  to 
bear  with  you  as  a  lasting  memory  of  me.  I 
sang  it  to  you  in  the  oJd  concert-room,  oh,  so 
long  ago !  Yes,  I  sang  it  to  you — for  I  saw 
you,  Emanuel,  from  the  first.  I  knew  well  you 
were  there.  I  saw  your  fair  hair  and  boyish 
face  clearly  among  all  the  coarse  stupid  faces  I 
so  hated  to  see.  And  I  saw,  too,  how  enrap- 
tured you  were  ;  and  I  was  proud  and  delight- 
ed. There !  I  close  the  book.  I  will  never 
sing  that  song  again!" 

And  she  shut  the  book  with  a  clang,  and 
stood  up. 

This  was,  I  may  say,  our  last  parting.  I 
have  always  endeavored  to  remember  her  only 
as  she  bade  me.  I  think  of  her  as  she  was 
when  first  I  knew  her.  The  long-extinguished 
fire  of  love  has  left  no  blackened  waste  behind 
it.  I  remember  her  always  with  tender  friend- 
ship. I  remember  her  as  one  remembers  some 
early  scene  of  youth,  which,  however  it  may 
change  in  reality,  remains  in  the  mind  unalter- 
ably beautiful,  quite  immortal,  through  age  and 
sorrow  and  the  changes  of  all  things  else,  and 
time  and  decay,  and  up  to  the  very  threshold 
of  death. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A    STROKE    OF   RETRIBUTION. 

A  FEW  days  or  weeks  passed  away.  Chris- 
tina had  gone;  faded,  so  to  speak,  out  of 
our  lives.  She  was  living  for  the  present  in 
Lugano  with  her  husband.  The  excitement  of 
:he  Paris  crime  had  been  almost  forgotten  in 
London.  The  season  was  over,  the  opera- 
louses  were  closed,  every  thing  looked  dead. 
Edward  Lambert  and  I  Avere  in  town  to- 
gether, two  moody,  silent,  sympathetic  friends  ; 
each,  as  before,  knowing  something  more  of 
he  other  than  he  cared  to  talk  of  even  to  that 
other. 

We  were  going  home  one  night  together,  and 
our  way  lay  through  the  Haymarket.  We  turned 
'nto  a  cigar-shop  to  get  a  cigar,  and  Lambert 
>vas  talking  of  a  game  of  billiards.  As  we  stood 
upon  the  threshold,  doubtful,  a  man  passed  slow- 
y  down  the  street  toward  the  Pall  Mall  end.  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face  under  the  flash  of 

lamp,  and  I  knew  him  at  once  for  the  Italian 
Benoni.  He  did  not,  or  would  not,  recognize 
me,  although  I  could  not  help  thinking  I  had 
done  him  a  good  turn  once ;  so  I  came  to  the 
conclusion  that,  under  the  circumstances,  he 
did  not  want  to  be  recognized.  Although 
[  was  just  on  the  point  of  calling  Lambert's 
attention  to  him,  I  checked  myself,  and  re- 
'rained. 

We  did  have  a  game  of  billiards,  and  then 
vere  leaving.  As  we  passed  through  the  cigar- 
hop  a  voice  hailed  me : 

"  Doth  not  a  meeting  like  this  make  amends ! 
!  say,  Temple !  Hallo  there  !" 

And  briskly  leaping  off  a  chair,  up  rushed  old 
Stephen  Lyndon, 'and  held  out  both  his  hands. 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


155 


He  was  handsomely  dressed,  and  wore  elegant 
lavender  gloves,  and  I  think,  a  new  wig.  But 
his  face  looked  puckered  and  seamed  and  care- 
worn. I  did  not  take  his  hand,  and  indeed  I 
would  have  walked  away  and  left  him  but  that 
Lambert  stopped,  somewhat  bewildered. 

"Introduce  me,  Temple,"  proceeded  the  un- 
abashed Lyndon.  "I  do  think  I  must  have 
had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  your  friend  before ; 
the  very  remarkable  contour  of  his  face  is  fa- 
miliar to  me.  Introduce  me,  Temple ;  but 
don't  mind  names.  Call  me  for  the  moment 
Mr.  Badboy ;  you  understand  the  allusion.  I 
don't  care  for  much  naming  of  names  here  just 
now — pour  des  raisons." 

"  I  think  your  name  and  yourself  ought  to  be 
alike  detestable,"  I  began. 

"Dear  boy,  wherefore?  I  have  done  the 
state  some  service — not  this  state,  but  the  oth- 
er yonder ;  and  they  know  it.  I  have  defeated 
the  machinations  of  conspirators  and  murder- 
ers. I  feel  proud  of  it.  Temple,  I  swear  to 
you  that  on  a  certain  day  I  saved  France !  Let 
us  repair  to  yonder  fane,  and  give  thanks  over 
Champagne.  Some  states  know  how  to  reward 
their  benefactors,  Temple.  I  have  gold,  Sir, 
red  gold.  Come,  I  long  to  know  your  friend  ; 
present  me." 

Ned  Lambert  was  puzzled.  Politeness, 
good-nature,  distrust,  surprise,  were  battling 
within  him.  He  had  almost  begun,  "Happy 
to  have  the  honor,  I'm  sure,"  when  I  stopped 
him  with  a  vehement  gesture. 

Then  Ned  said : 

"I  know  I  have  seen  this  gentleman — this 
person  before.  Yes,  I  remember !  He's  a  mad- 
man, Temple !  'Twas  he  that  attacked  me  and 
—and  Lilla,  you  recollect,  one  night  at  the 
theatre.  Yes  ;  he's  mad!" 

"No,  Lambert,  not  mad  ;  I  am  sorry  to  say 
not  mad — not  quite  mad,  at  least.  Look  at 
him,  Ned ;  he  asks  me  to  introduce  him.  I 
do  so.  That  man,  that  disgrace  to  the  name 
of  Englishman,  is  a  scoundrel  and  a  profligate ; 
a  wretch  who  left  his  wife  and  daughter  to 
starve,  if  they  would ;  he  has  lately  made  him- 
self a  rascally  spy  for  the  French  Government, 
and  tried  to  sell,  and,  according  to  his  own 
boast,  did  sell  with  profit,  the  lives  of  brave 
and  foolish  men.  Look  at  him,  Lambert,  and 
know  him  if  you  will." 

"Yes,  look  at  me,  Lambert,"  broke  in  Lyn- 
don, "and  know  me — for  I  know  you  now — as 
all  that  our  polite  friend  has  said ;  and  one 
thing  more :  I  am  Lilla  Lyndon's  father,  Lam- 
bert ;  and  I  presume  I  am  one  day  to  have  the 
honor  of  being  your  father-in-law.  Let  us  em- 
brace." 

"Is  this  true ?"  asked  Lambert,  turning  with 
pale  face  to  me. 

"It  is  true,  Ned;  that  wretched  creature  is 
Lilla's  father.  Now  you  know  all."  . 

"  Poor,  poor  Lilla !     She  knew  of  this  :  and 
therefore  she  doomed  herself  to  live  alone  ?" 
"She  did." 
"Now,  look   here,  fellows!"  said  Lyndon, 


cocking  his  hat  more  fiercely  than  before  on 
the  side  of  his  head,  and  trying  to  look  tall ; 
"  there  is  no  use  in  talking  over  family  affairs 
thus  publicly.  But  I  tell  you  this :  /  don't 
care — I'm  not  going  to  be  kept  out  of  the  fam- 
ily councils  any  longer.  I  know  all  about  my 
daughter  now,  and  my  wife  too ;  and  I'm  open 
either  to  hate  them  or  to  love  them.  Whoever 
marries  my  daughter  has  to  deal  with  me.  I 
am  not  hard  to  deal  with ;  but  I  must  be  con- 
ciliated, courted,  paid  off,  if  necessary.  In 
one  word,  Lambert,  are  you  prepared  to  treat  ? 
Are  you  ready  to  go  into  council  ?" 

"No,"  I  said,  answering  for  him.  "No, 
Ned,  not  a  word  with  him.  Better  Lilla  bore 
any  persecution,  or  waited  any  time." 

"This  from  you,  Temple  !  I  thought  I  had 
won  your  gratitude,  at  least." 

"  Yes ;  I  believe  you  did  really  try  to  do  me 
a  good  turn ;  and  though  I  had  no  need  of  it, 
and  was  not  in  the  danger  you  supposed,  I  am 
not  ungratsful  for  it,  and  I  will  try  to  serve  you 
yet.  If  you  want  money — " 

"My  good  Temple!  If  I  want  money? 
All  my  life  has  been  a  perpetual  want  of  mon- 
ey. Just  now  I  do  happen  to  be  pretty  flush ; 
but,  good  God !  I  know  myself — I  ought  to — 
and  I  shall  be  as  hard  up  as  ever  in  a  few 
weeks.  Besides,  I  begin  to  feel  at  last  the 
want  of  a  peaceful  domestic  life.  I  think  I 
have  pretty  well  exhausted  all  the  stormy  joys, 
and  I  am  now  very  anxious  to  retire  into  the 
placid  bosom  of  family  comfort.  I  think  I  may 
venture  to  say  to  my  future  son-in-law,  if  he 
will  allow  me  the  honor  so  to  call  him,  that  in 
me  he  sees  a  reclaimed  man ;  at  least  he  sees 
in  me  a  man  who  wants  to  be  reclaimed.  The 
one  grand  emotion  at  the  bottom  of  my  nature, 
Lambert,  is  religion.  Our  friend  Temple  will 
quite  bear  me  out  in  that.  Religion,  Sir !  I 
confess  that  my  life  of  late  years,  and  the  per- 
sistent ill-treatment  I  have  experienced  from 
the  world  and  my  nearest  relatives,  has  rather 
disturbed  the  religious  element.  But  there  it 
is  still.  Now  I  know  that  family  affection  can 
purify  and  restore  it ;  therefore  let  us  go  in  for 
family  affection.  I  am  to  be  reclaimed.  Eh, 
lien,  reclaim  me!" 

He  then  threw  back  his  coat  from  his  breast, 
and  stood  with  displayed  shirt-front,  as  if  moral 
reclamation  were  to  be  effected  by  the  agency 
of  a  stethoscope. 

Lambert  looked  at  me  inquiringly,  as  if  to 
ask,  "Is  this  genuine?" 

I  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  which 
said,  "Decidedly  not." 

"Come,  Mr.  Lyndon,"  I  said,  "my  friend 
does  not  know  you  as  well  as  I  do ;  you  want 
something;  put  it  into  plain  words — what  is 
it?" 

The  little  man  smote  his  breast  theatrically, 
and  said, 

"A  home." 

"Any  thing  else?" 

"A  daughter." 

"Mr.    Lyndon,"   I   said,    rather    seriously, 


156 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


"there  is  such  a  thing  in  the  world  as  bein 
too  late.     I  am  afraid  you  are  too  late." 

"But  look  here,  Temple;  I  want  to  be  re 
claimed;  I  do,  by  Cod!  And  I  think  Go 
wants  me  to  be  reclaimed  too.  I  don't  thin 
He  hates  me  wholly,  for  I  have  always  love 
the  beauty  of  His  house,  and  I  have  loved  t 
sing  to  Him.  I  think  He  could  have  loved  m 
if  things  had  just  gone  a  little  better  with  me 
Do  try  me,  Temple — and  Lambert.  1  know — 
well,  come,  at  least  I  think  I  am  sincere  now 
I  do  really.  I've  always  been  repenting,  o 
coarse ;  and  I  don't  wonder  that  you  are  a  lit 
tie  suspicious ;  but,  by  the  Lord,  I  think  I'n 
sincere  this  time !  Don't  turn  away  from  me 
lads ;  now  don't !  Come  to  my  daughter 
Lambert,  and  take  me  with  you  ;  I'll  fall  a 
her  knees,  I'm  d — d  if  I  don't !  Look  here 
these  are  tears. " 

So  they  were ;  there  were  tears  nnmistakablj 
running  down  his  wrinkled  old  face,  out  of  his 
blinking  black  eyes.  I  had  so  long  been  ac- 
customed to  his  private  theatrical  displays  and 
his  easy  gusts  of  emotion,  that  I  was  not  per- 
haps much  moved.  Lambert  was  touched 
quite  touched.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  the 
wretched  old  creature,  who  seized  it,  pressed  it 
to  his  lips,  and  blubbered  over  it. 

My  God !  if  in  that  supreme  moment  a  touch 
of  true  compunction  did  visit  the  heart  of  that 
unfortunate  man,  may  it  not  have  been  too 
late !  may  it  not  have  been  too  late ! 

Lyndon  lifted  up  his  head,  and  exclaimed, 

"  Then  I  am  saved  ?     I  shall  see  my  daughter  ?" 

"You  shall,"  said  poor  Ned  Lambert,  and 

wrung  again  the  old  man's  hand. 

Now  I  had  been  anxious  to  bring  this  scene 
to  a  close.  Perhaps  my  distrust  of  Lyndon 
was  such  that  I  disliked  to  see  Ned  Lambert 
touched  by  him.  Besides,  it  was  hardly  the 
place  for  a  scene.  We  had  moved  a  few  paces 
up  the  Haymarket,  and  now  stood  just  one 
pace  down  Jermyn  Street,  and  in  the  shadow : 
I  had,  by  working  our  group  gently  along,  got 
thus  far  at  least  out  of  the  glitter  and  glare  of 
the  Haymarket.  Still,  there  were  people  con- 
stantly passing  us,  and  looking  with  some  sur- 
prise at  us  and  our  gestures.  Just  now  some- 
body who  had  been  standing  in  a  doorway 
came  out,  and,  apparently  attracted  by  curios"- 
ity,  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  us.  The  person 
approached  somewhat  behind  me,  and  I  could 
only  see  that  somebody  was  drawing  near  and 
listening.  Now  nothing  can  exceed  the  easy 
vacuous  impudence  with  which  street-idlers  in 
London  coolly  walk  up  close  to  a  group  of  peo- 
ple, and  there  stand,  and  stare,  and  listen.  I 
am  myself  peculiarly  nervous  and  sensitive 
about  this  sort  of  thing ;  and  the  vicinity  of 
this  vulgar  and  curious  eaves-dropper  made  me 
specially  uncomfortable.  I  was  just  about  to 
turn  and  ask  the  fellow  rather  angrily  what  he 
wanted  there,  when  Lyndon  called  to  me,  in  a 
tone  half  triumphant,  half  tearful :  "  Not  too 
late,  Temple  !  recall  your  words,  my  friend  I 
No,  not  too  late,  after  all ! " 


At  that  moment  the  listener,  whose  shadow 
was  just  behind  me,  pushed  or  lurched  forward, 
and  dashed  against  Lyndon.  So  far  as  there 
was  time  for  thought,  I  thought  it  was  the 
lurch  of  a  drunken  man.  But  at  the  same  in- 
stant I  heard  two  sudden  peculiar  sounds  fol- 
lowing each  other  instantaneously ;  two  sounds 
in  each  of  which  there  was  something  like  a 
thump,  and  something  like  a  rattle,  and  Lyn- 
don gave  a  wild  shriek,  flung  up  his  arms,  then 
collapsed  like  a  man  stricken  with  cholera,  and 
rolled  on  his  legs  for  a  second,  and  then  fell  all 
in  a  heap  on  the  pavement.  And  in  the  same 
instant  of  time  the  man  who  had  rushed  on  Lyn- 
don cried  out  the  word  "  Traditore  /"  flashed 
round  on  me  the  fierce  wolf-like  eyes  of  Benoni 
the  Italian,  and  then  fled  fast  as  a  wild-cat 
down  the  silent  darknesses  of  Jermyn  Street.  . 
"Look  to  him,  Temple,"  shouted  Lambert; 

I'll  be  after  that  fellow."  And  he  rushed 
away,  his  long  legs  making  tremendous  play 
along  the  pavement. 

In  a  moment  a  group  of  people,  chiefly  wo- 
men from  the  Haymarket,  had  gathered  round  ; 
;hen  a  couple  of  policemen  came  up,  and  one 
vent  off  like  mad  down  Jermyn  Street  after 
Ned  and  the  assassin.  We  lifted  up  Lyndon, 
and  brought  him  into  a  public  house  which 
stands,  or  stood,  at  the  Haymarket  corner  of 
he  street.  There  we  laid  him  on  a  bench. 
He  was  bleeding  fearfully  from  two  wounds, 
one  in  the  breast,  one  just  under  the  ear.  A 
urgeon  was  sent  for  from  across  the  street, 
ind  came  up  in  a  moment.  While  he  was 
pening  Lyndon's  clothes  Lyndon  recovered  a 
ittle  from  the  swoon  into  which  he  had  fall- 
n,  and  looked  up.  His  eyes  fell  on  me  at 
nee. 

^  "  You  are  a  prophet,  Temple,"  he  murmured. 
'  It  is  too  late,  you  see.  No  use,  doctor !  Not 
o  deep  as  a  well,  nor  so  wide  as  a  church- 
Soor;  but  'tis  enough,  'twill  serve.  Temple, 
our  friends  of  the  revolution  have  done  for 
me.  Tell  my  daughter  I'm  sorry,  and  my  wife, 
ndyour  little  Lilla." 

Ned  Lambert  had  by  this  time  quietly  re- 
oined  the  group,  and  stood  with  flushed Vace 
ilently  looking  on.  Lyndon  saw  him,  and 
miled. 

"Good  fellow,  Lambert,"  he  said;  "kind 
ad— I  like  you.  I  ought  to  say,  '  Bless  you, 
jambert ! '  in  the  regular  old  style ;  but  I  can't 
et  up  to  do  it  with  the  proper  action.  I  am 
ying,  Egypt,  dying!  I  hope  God  will  forgive 
ie.  I  think  He  might  forgive  me  if  He  for- 
ives  Goodboy ;  and  Goodboy  is  so  respectable 
lere  can't  be  any  doubt  about  him." 

I  asked  the  surgeon  in  a  low  tone  whether 
oor  Lyndon  had  not  better  be  kept  quiet ;  he 
as  talking  away  all  this  time  incessantly,  ex- 
ept  when  an  occasional  pang  or  gasp  stopped 
is  utterance  for  a  moment.  The  surgeon  only 
look  his  head,  and  signified  with  a  gesture 
lat  it  did  not  matter  now.  I  asked  whether 
e  had  not  better  be  removed  to  some  hospital, 
r  somewhere  of  the  kind.  The  reply  was  a 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


But  where  there's  so  much  valuable  raw  mate- 
rial, I  don't  believe  God  means  it  always  to  lie 
idle.  No,  no  ;  He  doesn't  make  blunders,  or 
waste  good  stuff  in  that  sort  of  way.  He'll  find 
use  for  me,  though  I  couldn't  find  any  use  for 
myself.  Confound  it  all !  I'm  better  than  a  rat 
or  a  black  beetle.  I  know  that  my  Redeemer 
liveth !  I  am  sorry  you  seem  rather  wanting 
in  the  religious  element,  Temple  ;  but  I  dare 

say  something  can  be  done,  even  for  you. 

Ah,  not  fair,  George  Lyndon ;  not  fair,  brother 
George ;  'twas  you  did  it,  not  I ;  always  making 
me  your  scape-goat.  Well,  I  did  one  right 
thing  in  life,  d— n  me!— O  God,  forgive  me,  I 
mean.  Not  too  late,  Temple,  after  all !  O 
God!" 

Lyndon  gasped  heavily.  His  head  fell  for- 
ward plump  on  his  breast. 

"Oh,  he's  dead  !"  said  one  of  the  bar-maids, 
with  a  little  scream. 

So  he  was. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE    OLD    PLACE    AGAIN. 

THERE  is  very  little  of  a  story  in  all  this. 

reat  heroic  events  and  sufferings,  which  would 
naturally  consolidate  themselves  into  five  acts 
with  a  grand  denouement,  are  the  lot  of  the  fa- 
vored very  few.  My  ordinary  life  kept  on  much 
the  same  after  the  departure  of  Christina,  the 
murder  of  Lyndon,  and  the  marriage,  which 
;ook  place  within  a  few  months,  of  my  dear 
friends  -Ned  Lambert  and  his  Lilla  Lyndon. 
They  live  in  a  pretty  little  house  in  Brompton. 
I  left  that  neighborhood,  and  took  lodgings 
near  Bedford  Square.  It  was  there  that  I  be- 
gan the  writing  of  this  story,  in  the  Bloomsbury 
region  which  the  opening  chapter  describes,  on 
he  wet  and  wild  evening,  when,  lonely,  I  sat 
down  to  tell  my  tale  to  him  and  her  who  would 
isten. 

Nothing  came  of  Lyndon's  murder.      The 
ssassin  was  not  found,  nor  was  any  trace  of 
im   discovered.      What   I   knew  I  kept   to 
myself. 

I  gave  up  the  stage  at  once,  and  not  too 
oon.  1  have  often  hinted  that  my  voice  be- 
an to  give  distinct  signs  of  failure;  and  of 
ate  it  was  quite  clear  to  me  that  it  would  not 
luch  longer  bear  the  heroic  strain  of  opera.  So 
anticipated  defeat,  and  surrendered.  "Hap- 
y  the  man,"  says  the  author  of  "  Penden- 
is,"  "who  quits  the  field  in  time,  and  yields 
is  broken  sword  to  Fate  the  Conqueror  with  a 
esigned  and  cheerful  heart."  My  heart  was 
esigned  and  cheerful,  indeed,  but  not  from 
ny  heroic  or  magnanimous  qualities,  to  which 
have  not  pretended,  but  because  it  never  had 
een  in  the  battle  at  all,  and  it  was  now  ab- 
rbed  in  quite  other  and  far  better  hopes  than 
lose  which  at  the  outset  led  me  to  the  fight, 
retired,  had  a  farewell  benefit,  was  banquet- 
1  by  some  of  my  friends,  made  a  speech,  was 
ndly  and  even  tenderly  noticed  by  the  news- 


158 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


papers,  and  then  subsided  into  music-teaching 
and  concert-singing.  I  quitted  wild  Bohemia, 
and  became  thoroughly  respectable  and  com- 
monplace. Nothing  could  be  more  quiet,  mo- 
notonous, humdrum,  lonely,  than  the  kind  of 
existence  into  which  I  gradually  sank.  Many 
a  man  makes  a  desperate  run  up  the  hill,  full 
of  energy  and  resolve,  but  suddenly  meeting 
midway  with  some  check,  struggles  a  moment 
or  two,  grumbles  a  while,  and  then  very  quietly 
turns  round  and  saunters  down  again.  So  it 
was  with  me ;  but  neither  the  early  run  up,  nor 
the  later  descent,  was  wholly  merit  or  wholly 
fault  of  mine.  I  mounted  in  the  hope  of  over- 
taking Christina  Reichstein ;  I  paused  and  came 
down  because  I  believed  that  thereby  I  should 
make  myself  worthier — at  least  less  unworthy 
— to  be  the  husband  of  Lilla  Lyndon. 

I  had  to  wait  our  self-appointed  period  of 
probation  for  her;  and  I  waited,  silent,  pa- 
tient, absorbed  in  the  thought  of  her.  We 
never  interchanged  letter,  or  word,  or  missive, 
or  greeting  of  any  kind.  During  the  whole 
time  I  never  saw  her ;  for  a  long  time  I  never 
heard  of  her,  except  once,  Avhen,  taking  up  the 
Morning  Post,  I  saw  that  Mr.  Lyndon,  M.P., 
and  the  Misses  Lyndon,  had  arrived  at  the 
Hotel  Bristol,  Paris,  on  their  way  home  from 
Italy.  I  make  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Lyndon 
took  his  daughter  every  where  he  could,  and 
into  all  manner  of  distractions,  in  the  hope  of 
inducing  her  to  love  some  one  else  and  to  for 
get  me.  I  did  not  fear.  Lilla  Lyndon  had 
contrived,  unconsciously  I  am  sure/to  impress 
me  with  a  sense  of  pure  unalterable  constancy 
which  I  could  not  doubt.  She  had  her  father's 
qualities,  in  fact,  turned  from  bad  into  good, 
and  sanctified  by  her  purity  of  soul,  and  glori- 
fied by  her  noble  warmth  of  heart.  No,  I 
could  not  doubt  her. 

Other  doubts,  indeed,  I  had  ;  and  they  gave 
me  many  a  pang.  They  were  doubts  of  my 
own  worthiness— not  merely  of  my  moral  worth, 
for  I  do  believe  that  the  presence  and  the  in- 
iluence  of  such  a  woman  must  have  stirred  Ba- 
rabbas  to  some  love  of  goodness ;  but  doubts 
of  my  fitness  in  what  I  may  call  the  esthetic 
or  artistic  way  to  sustain  Lilla  Lyndon's  ideal. 
I  could  not  and  did  not  disguise  from  myself 
that  her  love  for  me  had  its  source  in  pure  ro- 
mance— the  passion  of  a  generous  girl-nature, 
weary  of  monotonous  and  colorless  formality 
and  respectability,  for  some  nature  on  which 
the  rays  of  a  more  romantic  and  highly-tinted 
existence  fell  ever  so  lightly.  I  knew  that 
what  with  our  secret  love  and  my  late  attempt 
not  to  steal  her  from  her  sphere,  Lilla  had  be- 
gun to  look  upon  me  as  an  exalted  heroic  kind 
of  being.  I  looked  into  myself,  and  turned 
away  with  a  pang  of  shame  to  think  how  unlike 
to  all  this  was  the  reality— of  dread  lest  she 
too  should  some  time  discover  it  and  be  disap- 
pointed. Would  it  be  better,  I  sometimes 
gloomily  thought,  that  the  passages  in  our  lives, 
now  interrupted,  should  end  thus — simple,  sad, 
memorable,  not  to  be  renewed,  not  to  be  for- 


gotten ?  Often,  as  I  found  myself  giving  way 
to  ill  humor  and  pettishness  and  littleness  of 
any  kind  ;  as  I  felt  tempted  to  snarl  at  friends 
who  had  passed  high  up  the  beanstalk  of  suc- 
cess and  got  to  the  castle  and  fairy  regions  at 
the  top,  while  I  remained  idly  on  the  dull 
ground  below ;  as  I  recognized  in  myself  the 
prickings  of  envy  and  the  pangs  of  disappoint- 
ed ambition  ;  as  I  detected  myself  in  being  too 
lazy  to  change  a  lodging,  too  cowardly  to  give 
a  landlady  warning,  too  procrastinating  to  suc- 
ceed in  doing  some  solid  service  to  a  friend— I 
could  not  help  thinking  that  perhaps  it  would  be 
a  happy  thing,  after  all,  for  her,  if  Lilla  Lyndon 
and  I  were  never  to  meet  again. 

This  was  my  pain  and  punishment  some- 
times ;  but  for  this  I  should  have  had,  even  in 
waiting  for  her  thus  in  silence  and  separation, 
the  light  of  an  unchanging  hope  and  happiness 
around  me. 

Once  I  went  back  and  revisited  my  old  birth- 
place town.     Very  little  was  changed  there. 
It  is  exasperating,  when  you  think  you  have 
lived  through  at  least  half  a  dozen  lives,  to  come 
back  to  the  place  you  left  so  long  ago,  and  find 
every  thing  precisely  as  it  was  when  you,  un- 
heeded, turned  your  boyish  back  upon  it.     I 
spent  the  better  part  of  a  whole  day  loitering 
on  the  strand  where  I  did   battle  with  Ned 
Lambert,  and  watching  the  roll  of  the  surf, 
and  flinging  lazy  pebbles  in.    I  climbed  the  hill- 
side and  looked  long  upon  the  glorious  scene 
below.      Once  I  made  an  excursion  in  a  fisher- 
man's boat  round  the  bay ;  and  from  the  light 
summer-day  clouds  and  soft  blue  hazy  sky  came 
suddenly  heavy  mist  and  gale  (I  knew  them 
well  of  old) ;  and  quickly  a  squall  arose,  and  a 
storm  thundered  in  our  ears  and  tattered  our 
sails  before  we  could  reef  them,  and  drove  us 
off  shore,  blinding  and  baffling  us  with  its  spray. 
I  declare  that  I  felt  a  rush  of  life  and  energy 
such  as  I  had  not  known  for  long,  and  which 
was  positive  delight.     I  showed  a  proficiency, 
too,  in  the  management  of  the  sheet  which  was 
intrusted  to  me,  and  a  familiarity  with  the  char- 
acter of  the  sea  there,  which  quite  amazed  the 
fisherman  and  his  boy.    I  was  enraptured  with 
the  storm.     I  was  a  boy  again,  and  I  roared 
some  frantic  improvisation  of  exulting  energy  to 
answer  the  defiance  of  the  roaring  waves.    Our 
aoom  was  torn  away,  and  we  had  literally  no- 
thing for  it  but  to  run  before  the  wind,  whither 
the  wind  would.     I  lighted  a  cigar,  and  strove 
to  keep  it  burning.     I  could  sometimes,  when 
the  wind  lifted  the  mist,  and  the  spray  was  less 
blinding,  catch  glimpses  of  a  distant  shore,  and 
\  steep  hill,  and  white  houses  scattered  over 
t ;   and  I  thought  I  could  find  no  more  ap- 
propriate place  to  die — "  where  I  did  begin, 
here  now  I  end!" — and  that  were  I  to  go 
down  there,  I  should  always  live  a  pure  and 
glorified  life  in  the  sacred  memory  of  Lilla 
jyndon.      But  I  was  preserved — I  trust  to 
make  her  happy ;  and  I  was  landed  at  night, 
he  storm  having  abated,  near  a  lonely  public 
louse  on  a  little  peninsula  far  down  the  coast, 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


159 


wet  and  draggled,  cold  and  dispirited,  the  en- 
ergy and  excitement  quite  washed  out  of  me, 
and  with  the  prospect  of  at  least  a  fortnight's 
enforced  relief  from  singing,  owing  to  the  mag- 
nificent hoarseness  I  felt  setting  in. 

And  I  went  to  see  poor  old  Miss  Griffin,  the 
organist  under  whose  sway  Christina  and  I 
used  to  sing,  and  whom  I  hope  the  reader  has 
not  quite  forgotten.  Miss  Griffin  did  not  look 
very  much  older,  or  neater,  or  primmer,  than 
she  used  to  do  twenty  years  syne.  She  still 
played  upon  the  very  same  organ — Ned  Lam- 
bert's improvements  had  made  no  way  here — 
and  she  had  loud-voiced,  demure  girls  singing 
round  her  on  the  Sunday,  and  practicing  under 
her  direction  in  the  evenings  of  the  week,  and 
taking  a  quiet  tea  with  her  now  and  then ; 
sometimes  being  scolded  by  her,  and  no  doubt 
sometimes  paying  her  off  with  smart  feminine 
gibes  when  her  neat,  well-made-up  back  was 
turned.  Every  thing  around  Miss  Griffin  seem- 
ed so  much  the  same  as  before,  so  little  affect- 
ed by  years,  that  I  positively  looked  round  for 
Miss  Griffin's  mamma  and  the  parrot,  and  I 
should  not  have  been  surprised  if  both  had  ap- 
peared in  their  familiar  places.  But  Time  is 
not  to  be  quite  disarmed — and  the  mamma  and 
the  parrot  were  gone. 

Miss  Griffin  was  very  friendly,  quaint,  and 
affectionate. 

"And  so  you  became  a  great  singer,"  she 
said,  "after  all?  To  say  the  truth,  I  never 
expected  it  of  you.  I  always  thought  you  were 
too  idle  and  careless.  Of  course  you  often  met 
Christina  Braun?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Griffin  ;  very  often." 

"  She  was  a  pupil  of  mine  once,  and  sang  in 
my  choir.  Oh,  but  I  forgot  —  of  course  you 
recollect  her  here.'; 

"  Perfectly  well,  indeed." 

"Yes,  yes;  to  be  sure.  Many  a  time  you 
sang  with  her  in  this  very  room.  No,  though 
— not  this  room ;  the  old  lodgings.  You  see,  I 
have  been  migratory  since  you  were  here." 

She  had  changed  her  lodgings  once  in  twen- 
ty years. 

"Did  Christina  ever  speak  of  me,  Mr. 
Banks  ?"  Miss  Griffin  took  up  my  name,  of 
course,  in  the  old  and  original  way. 

"Very  often,  Miss  Griffin;   and  very  kind- 

iy." 

"Yes,  I  am  sure  she  would.  She  was  a 
good-hearted  creature,  only  I  used  to  fear  that 
she  was  too  fond  of  display,  and  that  she  wrould 
come  to  no  good.  And  she  became  a  great 
singer  too  ?" 

"  She  became  a  great  singer  indeed.  That 
is  quite  certain,  Miss  Griffin." 

' '  Yes,  a  gentleman  here,  son  of  Mr.  Thirl- 
wall,  our  clergyman — you  recollect  ? — was  up 
in  London  once,  and  he  told  me  he  heard 
Christina  at  the  Opera,  and  that  the  house  was 
crowded,  and  the  Queen  was  there.  He  did 
not  speak  of  you  ;  but  this  was  before  you  came 
out,  I  suppose.  And  she  has  made  a  great 
fortune,  and  retired  from  the  stage?" 


"I  believe  so,  Miss  Griffin  ;  at  least  she  has 
retired  from  the  stage." 

"Already!  Dear,  dear!  Only  the  other 
day  she  was  a  little  girl  here — oh,  quite  a  little 
girl.  And  you  were  a  boy ;  and  now — " 

"And  now  I  am  a  'grizzled,  grim  old  fogy,' 
you  were  going  to  say,  Miss  Griffin  ?" 

"Nonsense !  Indeed  I  was  going  to  say  no- 
thing of  the  kind  ;  for  if  you  were  to  be  thought 
old,  I  don't  know  what  could  be  said  of  me. 
And  you  are  not  married  yet  ?  I  wonder  you 
didn't  marry  Christina.  I  remember  now  that 
I  thought  at  one  time  you  were  sweet  upon  her ; 
but  certainly  you  were  too  young  then." 

After  a  while  I  asked  Miss  Griffin  to  play 
something  in  memory  of  old  acquaintance.  She 
did  so,  very  kindly  and  readily,  playing,  in- 
deed, with  some  skill ;  and  even,  on  a  little 
pressure,  sang  a  quaint  old  song,  with  Avhich, 
some  twenty  years  back,  I  used  to  be  perhaps 
rather  more  familiar  than  I  much  cared  to  be. 
It  sounded  in  my  ear  now  enriched  by  such 
kindly,  softening,  saddening  associations,  that 
it  seemed  almost  like  an  evening  hymn. 

Then  she  insisted  on  my  singing  something 
for  her  out  of  one  of  the  operas  in  which,  as 
she  Avas  pleased  to  put  it,  I  had  made  my  great- 
est success.  I  asked  her  to  choose  for  herself, 
and  she  selected,  of  all  others,  something  from 
the  very  opera  in  which  I  sang  with  Christina 
for  the  last  time.  I  sang  it  as  well  as  I  could 
with  the  hoarseness  of  my  boating -excursion 
growing  on  me ;  and  a  dark-eyed,  pale-cheeked 
girl,  too  timid  to  open  her  lips,  accompanied 
me.  What  a  dreary  business  it  was  to  me  !  It 
was  the  very  ghost  of  a  song. 

This  done,  I  prepared  to  leave. 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  never  see  you  again,"  said 
Miss  Griffin.  "  Though  I  think,  whenever  you 
get  married,  you  ought  to  bring  your  wife  to 
see  me.  You  ought  to  be  married  now.  Don't 
let  it  get  too  late.  Well,  well,  how  odd  it  is ! 
The  other  day  only,  it  seems  to  me,  I  thought 
you  quite  too  young  to  marry ;  and  now  I  am 
urging  you  not  to  let  it  grow  too  late." 

"Just  the  way  in  life,  Miss  Griffin.  One  day 
we  are  too  young,  and  we  resolve  to  wait  a  lit- 
tle and  think  the  matter  over ;  and  we  think  ;i 
little  too  long,  and  behold  we  wake  up  and  we 
are  too  old." 

' '  Ah,  that  is  just  the  way  with  me.  I  thought 
of  going  to  live  in  London  once,  when  I  heard 
that  every  body  from  this  place  was  doing  so 
well  there — even  poor  Edward  Lambert,  who 
wasn't  clever  or  brilliant  at  all,  you  know,  quite 
making  a  fortune,  I'm  told — but  I  put  off  go- 
ing from  time  to  time,  and  now  I  am  too 
old." 

"You  must  be  very  lonely  here,  Miss  Grif- 
fin." 

"  I  used  to  be  very  lonely  at  first,  after  my 
dear  m&mma  died ;  but  I  have  grown  used  to 
it  now.  I  have  the  church  to  attend  to,  and 
my  choir,  and  the  pupils.  I  suppose  every  body- 
is  lonely  in  one  way  or  another,  more  or  les?, 
except,  of  course,  great  people  who  mix  in  the 


160 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


fashionable  world  of  London,  like  Christin 
Braun  and  vou." 

Yes ;  except  such  as  Christina  and  I.  Othe 
people  are  lonely ;  but  we  who  have  free  souls 
it  touches  us  not ! 

I  took  a  friendly  leave  of  good  old  Miss  Gri: 
fin ;  never,  in  all  probability,  to  see  her  again 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
"BRIGHT  AS  THE  BREAKING  EAST." 

THE  year  was  over;  that  strange,  dreamy 
solitary,  silent  year  of  my  life  was  gone  at  last 
I  was  free  to  seek  out  Lilla  Lyndon  and  ask  he 
to  be  my  wife.  I  had  been  filled  with  hope  an< 
confidence  all  through  the  time,  and  only  long 
ing  that  the  day  should  come  when  I  coul( 
realize  my  hopes.  Now  that  the  time  ha( 
come,  I  was  tormented  with  doubts,  distrusts 
despondency.  I  had  not,  indeed,  to  agonize 
me  the  sudden  fear  of  Wordsworth's  lover  les 
the  beloved  should  be  dead.  People  of  Mr, 
Lyndon's  wealth  and  position  live  in  a  glass 
house  in  London :  any  body  with  the  slightes 
interest  in  the  matter  can  follow  them  in  al 
their  movements — in  their  going  from  town  to 
country,  from  London  to  the  Continent,  in  theii 
dinner-parties  and  balls.  Nothing  remarkable 
could  have  happened  to  Lilla  without  my  hear- 
ing of  it  through  half  a  dozen  channels.  Of 
late  I  hardly  ever  visited  Ned  Lambert  and  his 
wife  without  hearing  that  the  latter  had  just  re- 
ceived some  kind  letter,  or  message,  or  perhaps 
even  a  visit  from  Lilla.  I  had  several  times 
heard  rumors  that  Lilla  was  to  be  married  to 
this  or  that  desirable  and  aristocratic  or  wealthy 
personage,  and  these  rumors  did  not  alarm  me. 
Nothing,  in  fact,  had  occurred  to  give  me  fear, 
and  Lilla  had  impressed  me  gradually,  inde- 
scribably, with  a  faith  in  her  constancy  which 
was  the  nearest  approach  to  religious  devotion 
I  had  ever  had.  Yet  the  time  had  come  to 
prove  her,  and  I  was  filled  with  distrust  and 
despondency. 

So  far  as  I  could  analyze  the  feeling,  it  arose 
from  the  old  deep  sense  of  my  own  unworthi- 
ness.  What  had  I  to  give  her  for  her  love  ? 
What  had  I  done  that  I  should  be  called  living 
into  heaven  ?  I  who  had  always  been  buffeted 
through  life,  without  time  or  chance  to  develop 
whatever  elements  of  good  might  be  in  me ;  I 
who  had  never  troubled  myself  about  religion 
or  morals  in  any  high  and  spiritual  sense,  but 
merely  gone  my  way  whither  Fate  and  the  hour 
would— what  had  I  done  to  deserve  the  love 
of  such  a  woman  ?  What  could  I  give  her  for 
it  ?  What  warrant  had  I  that  I  should  always 
be  able  to  hold  it  ? 

I  think,  to  be  happy,  a  man  ought  to  be  su- 
premely selfish  or  sublimely  good.  He  ought 
to  have  either  a  dominating  will  or  a  domina- 
ting conscience.  I  envy  people  who  look  out 
for  the  right,  and,  seeing  it,  go  straight  along 
that  path,  without  hesitation  or  after-thought, 


whether  it  lead  to  happiness  or  torment,  to 

shame  or  splendor,  because  it  is  the  right.  I 
have  sometimes,  in  lower  moods,  envied  those 
who  follow,  unthinking  and  reckless,  their  dom- 
inant will— who  do  the  thing  that  pleases  them, 
who  are  unjust  and  fear  not.  But  those  who 
are  not  selfish  enough  to  think  only  of  self,  who 
are  not  sublime  enough  to  ignore  self  altogeth- 
er, they  have  often  a  trying  time ;  and  I  am 
one  of  them.  If  I  could  now  have  thought  only 
of  myself,  I  should  have  been  happy.  Perhaps 
if  I  could  have  thought  only  of  Lilla,  I  should 
have  been  happy  too,  and  with  a  far  purer  hap- 
piness. But  I  could  not  forget  my  own  life, 
my  own  follies,  faults,  weaknesses,  roughnesses' 
sins ;  and  I  thought  if,  since  I  saw  her  last,  she 
has  reconsidered  her  resolve,  if  she  has  seen 
some  one  who  is  in  every  way  more  worthy  of 
her  than  I,  and  has  found  that  she  could  love 
him  better — every  friend  she  has  on  earth  must 
approve  her  change  of  mood,  and  I— even  I — 
could  not  condemn  her.  And  though  I  did  not 
fear  that  this  would  be  the  end,  my  very  faith 
in  her  but  deepened  and  embittered  my  sense 
of  hopeless  inferiority. 

One  resolve  I  made;  the  Christian  reader 
will,  of  course,  condemn  it,  and  regard  me  as 
abhorred  because  of  it ;  the  practical,  cynical 
reader  will  smile  at  the  idea,  and  think  I  never 
meant  what  I  said.     It  is  the  truth,  however. 
[ff  any  thing  whatever  should  have  occurred  to 
Dreak  the  engagement  between  Lilla  Lyndon 
and  me,  I  was  determined  not  to  live  anV  lon- 
ger.    I  would  not  confront  any  more  of' a  fu- 
tile, good-for-nothing,  ignoble  existence  with- 
out love  and  without  hope.     If  this  glorious, 
delicious  prospect  which  Heaven  had  so  sud- 
denly and  strangely  held  out  to  me  of  a  regen- 
erated and  exalted  life,  with  love  in  it  and  a 
purpose  in  it — if  that  prospect  should  be  as  sud- 
denly and  as  strangely  withdrawn,  I  would  ac- 
cept the  decree  as  a  sentence  of  dismissal ;  I 
vould  take  it  as  a  declaration  that* I  had  no 
arther  hope  or  business  in  life,  and  I  would  get 
^ut  of  life  accordingly.     On  this— I  declare  it 
low  in  all  calmness,  and  looking  back  from  a 
listance  of  years— I  was  resolved ;  and  the  re- 
olve   sustained  me.     Come  the  worst,  there 
vas  something  to  fall  back  upon— there  was  a 
means  of  escape.     I  believed  that  Heaven  would 
ot  judge  my  decision  too  sternly,  and  at  least 
was  resolved  to  trust  my  soul  rather  to  heaven 
lan  to  earth.     Any  thing  in  preference  to  any 
more  of  the  meaningless,  barren,  good-for-no- 
ling,  loveless,  homeless,  hopeless  life  I  had  been 
eading  for  now  some  .fifteen  years.     One  way 
r  another,  let  that  at  least  end. 

Grim  resolve  for  a  lover  going  to  meet  his 
3ve ;  but,  grim  as  it  was,  it  strengthened,  con- 
oled,  and  animated  me. 

Lilla  is  of  age  to-day.  She  is  her  own  mis- 
ress.  She  can  accept  me  or  reject  me  of  her 
wn  free-will,  and  no  one  can  say  her  nay.  I 
ill  go  to-day— this  very  day — and  know  all. 
will  not  write  to  her,  I  will  not  go  to  her  house, 
ut  though  I  have  never  seen  her  since  our 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


161 


parting  in  Paris,  and  never  heard  from  her; 
though  we  have  never  interchanged  the  brief- 
est message  or  greeting,  I  know  that,  if  she  is 
still  of  the  same  resolve  as  she  was,  she  will 
walk  in  Kensington  Gardens  this  day.  I  know 
that  if  she  does  not  come  there,  all  is  over. 
The  same  impulse  which  brings  me  there  would 
bring  her,  if  her  object  were  the  same  as  mine. 

I  dressed  with  immense  and  exhausting  care 
that  day,  and  looked  in  the  glass  nearly  as  often 
as  if  I  were  a  girl  going  to  her  first  ball.  But 
the  result  did  not  strike  me  as  satisfactory; 
and  at  last  I  gave  up  the  attempt  at  self-adorn- 
ment and  improvement  in  a  kind  of  despair. 

The  day  was  not  bright.  For  summer-time 
it  was  singularly  dark  and  gray.  No  sun  shone, 
the  air  was  dense,  the  sky  all  hung  with  heavy 
clouds,  the  leaves  rustling  and  blowing  as  if 
autumn  had  already  set  in.  If  one  were  to 
take  his  omen  from  the  heavens  and  the  at- 
mosphere, this  were  a  day  to  look  for  disaster. 
This  is  just  the  gray  sombre  sky  under  which  I 
should  expect  to  hear  some  heavy  news. 

Kensington  Gardens  looked  strange  and 
gloomy  to  me.  The  trees  moaned  slightly  in 
the  light  wind  that  seemed  to  anticipate  Octo- 
ber. The  birds  flew  low ;  the  round  pond,  or 
pool,  when  I  came  near  it,  had  a  leaden-hued 
surface,  which  even  the  ripples  fanned  by  the 
wind  did  not  brighten.  Leaves  detached  un- 
timely from  the  neighboring  trees  and  plants 
came  rustling  and  rushing  down  .the  glades. 
There  rose  up  and  lingered  in  my  mind  a  verse 
from  a  strange,  sweet,  melancholy  song  of  Uh- 
land's : 

"Ich  reit'  am  fin  stern  Garten  bin, 
Die  diirren.  Biiume  sausen  drin, 
Die  welkeii  Blatter  fallen. 
Hier  pflegt'  ich  in  der  Rosen  zeit, 
Wann  alles  sich  der  Liebe  weiht, 
Mit  meinem  Lieb  zu  wallen." 

No  one  was  near  the  pond  when  I  reached  it, 
with  the  mournful  cadence  of  this  ballad  in  my 
ears  and  in  my  soul.  As  I  stood  by  the  mar- 
gin of  the  pool  there  was  literally  no  human 
being  in  sight.  Not  a  nursery-maid,  not  a 
child  even,  could  be  seen.  Down  this  glade 
or  that,  wherever  I  looked,  was  no  form  mov- 
ing. One  might  have  been  far  away  in  the 
country,  in  the  heart  of  some  lonely  old  park 
of  Queen  Anne's  time,  when  the  last  owner  was 
dead,  and  the  young  heir  was  abroad,  and  the 
mansion-house  was  deserted. 

I  stood  for  a  while  pursuing  this  sort  of 
thought,  and  vaguely  trifling  with  my  own 
emotions,  as  if  I  were  half  occupied  in  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  a  book,  endeavoring  to  while 
away  time  and  to  keep  down  anxiety.  It 
seemed  to  me  at  last  as  if  I  stood  in  utter  isola- 
tion, quite  alone.  A  sort  of  sea  seemed  to 
have  risen  up  and  swallowed  all  my  old  friends 
and  old  associations,  and  left  me  planted  there. 
In  this  moment  all  the  past  seemed  to  wear  an 
aspect  of  unreality  to  me.  Did  I  read  it  all,  or 
find  it  in  the  music  of  some  of  the  operas  in 
which  I  sang,  or  dream  it  out  as  a  poem  or  a 
L 


story  to  be  written  by  me  some  time  ?  Did  a 
real  living  Lilla  Lyndon  ever  tell  me  of  a  real 
living  love — or  is  she  but  the  phantom  of  a  wo- 
man who  would  have  loved  me  had  she  been  a 
creature  of  life  ? 

In  one  moment,  in  one  flash,  my  melancholy 
meditations  were  gene— my  question  was  an- 
swered. Life  came  into  the  silent  glade  at  my 
left.  I  saw  a  woman's  figure  at  the  far  end  of 
the  glade,  and  though  no  eye  could  distinguish 
features  at  such  a  distance,  I  knew  who  came 
with  light  and  rapid  step  toward  me.  I  knew 
the  figure,  the  walk  of  Lilla  Lyndon.  I  did 
not  rush  to  meet  her— no,  not  yet.  I  stood 
and  abandoned  myself  to  the  unspeakable  de- 
light of  seeing  her  come  to  me.  I  think  I  broke 
into  a  deep  sigh  of  profound  relief  and  passion- 
ate joy.  She  came  nearer  and  nearer.  Thank 
Heaven  for  the  rare  chance  that  has  made  these 
gardens  so  solitary  to-day !  She  came  so  near 
that  now  I  could  see  every  feature  of  her  face, 
so  near  that  now  she  saw  me ;  and  then  I 
sprang  to  meet  her.  A  light  blush,  or  flush, 
came  over  her  face,  tinting  it  all  with  a  deli- 
cate momentary  rose-color,  which  deepened  al- 
most to  the  hue  of  the  damask-rose,  to  the  hue 
of  her  own  lips  as  I  kissed  them.  I  can  not 
describe  her  as  I  saw  her,  and  I  have  no  faith 
in  word-descriptions.  The  light  of  her  face  was 
to  me  as  the  light  of  a  star.  Other  description 
I  have  none  to  give. 

"I  knew  you  would  come !"  she  said. 

"My  love!  Lilla!"  were  the  only  words  I 
could  find  in  answer. 

Then  we  walked,  silent,  to  the  edge  of  the 
pond,  and  sat  on  one  of  the  seats  there ;  and  I 
took  her  hand  in  mine. 

"I  have  sad  news,"  said  Lilla,  looking  up  to 
me  with  eyes  that  now  floated  in  tears. 

I  started.  In  the  selfishness  of  my  love  I 
only  thought  of  some  sad  news  that  threatened 
it. 

"  Poor  papa  is  very,  very  ill.  He  has  had 
some  cruel  attacks  of  gout  lately ;  and — and 
he's  very  bad  now  indeed.  I  have  only  stolen 
out  a  moment  to  see  you,  because  I  knew  you 
would  be  here.  I  must  not  stay  with  you  ;  but 
he  knows  I  came  to  see  you ;  and  he  only  said 
he  hoped  I  would  not  leave  him  for  long  just 
now.  Oh,  he  spoke  so  kindly !  Under  all  his 
manner  he  has  a  noble  heart.  I  told  you  that 
some  day  he  would  appreciate  you,  and  you 
him ;  and  I  only  hope  and  pray  it  is  not  too 
late." 

I  loved  her  but  the  more  for  her  tender,  gen- 
erous illusion.  To  me  it  seemed,  even  in  that 
hour,  an  illusion.  I  had  outlived  faith  in  the 
miraculous  redemption  of  selfishness.  I  could 
not  believe  in  Mr.  Lyndon's  noble  heart ;  but  I 
believed  all  the  more  in  my  enemy's  daugh- 
ter. 

"You  must  return,  my  love,"  I  said.  "I 
will  not  keep  you  now— though  I  hope  your  af- 
fection magnifies  the  seriousness  of  the  danger. 
But  I  will  not  keep  you  here — enough  that  I 
have  seen  you  to-day." 


1G2 


MY  ENEMY'S  DAUGHTER. 


"  I  came  because  I  knew  you  would  be  here. 
I  came  to  tell  you—"  She  hesitated. 

"You  came  to  tell  me  that  you  have  not 
changed — that  I  may  love  you — that  you  will 
be  my  wife  ?" 

"I  came  to  tell  you  all  that,"  she  said,  with 
a  bright  gleam  of  light  shining  for  a  moment  in 
her  eyes  and  on  her  face,  "if  you  came  to  ask 
me." 

Some  months  after  this  I  received  one  day 
a  letter  from  Switzerland.  It  was  dated  from 
Lugano,  and  this  was  what  it  contained : 

"  MY  DEAR  EMANUEL, — I  have  just  seen  Ned 
Lambert  and  his  wife,  and  they  have  brought 
me  news,  not  unexpected,  from  England — the 
news  of  your  approaching  marriage.  I  hear 
of  it  with  gladness,  and  with  tears  that  are  glad 
too,  but  still  tears.  Oh,  how  I  wish  you  happi- 
ness, and  to  her  who  loves  you  and  whom  you 


love !  I  shall  tell  her  some  day  that  it  was  I 
who  first  discovered  her  secret,  before  you  did, 
and  told  you  of  it.  I  have  sent  her  a  little  gift,' 
a  necklace,  which  she  will  wear  for  my  sake' 
and  a  gift  from  my  husband. 

"I  was  shocked  and  startled  indeed  to  read 
of  Mr.  Lyndon's  death.  He  had  many  quali- 
ties that  were  good ;  and  I,  for  one,  think  of 
him  now  only  with  kindness,  and  pray  for 
him. 

"My  husband  sends  his  greetings  and  con- 
gratulations.' He  hopes  for  great  things  in  the 
spring,  and  bids  me  tell  you  the  opening  of  1859 
will  be  an  era.  He  is,  you  see,  as  full  of  hope 
and  faith  as  ever. 

"And  now,  dear  old  friend,  friend  from 
youth,  almost  from  childhood,  adieu !  I  shall 
hold  you  and  your  wife  always  in  my  heart  and 
in  my  love,  and  I  am  to  both  the  true  soul-sis- 
ter»  CHRISTINA." 


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BY  Miss  MULOCK. 

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From  the  North  British  Review. 

MISS  MULOCK'S  NOVELS. 

She  attempts  to  show  how  the  trials,  perplexities,  joys,  sorrows,  labors,  and  successes  of  life  deepen  or  wither  the 
character  according  to  its  inward  bent. 

She  cares  to  teach,  not  how  dishonesty  is  always  plunging  men  into  infinitely  more  complicated  external  difficulties 
than  it  would  in  real  life,  but  how  any  continued  insincerity  gradually  darkens  and  corrupts  the  very  life-springs  of 
the  mind;  not  how  all  events  conspire  to  crush  an  unreal  being  who  is  to  be  the  "example"  of  the  story  but  how 
every  event,  adverse  or  fortunate,  tends  to  strengthen  and  expand  a  high  mind,  and  to  break  the  springs  of  a  selfish 
or  merely  weak  and  self-indulgent  nature. 

She  does  not  limit  herself  to  domestic  conversations,  and  the  mere  shock  of  character  on  character-  she  includes 
a  large  range  of  events— the  influence  of  worldly  successes  and  failures— the  risks  of  commercial  enterprises-the 
power  of  social  position-in  short,  the  various  elements  of  a  wider  economy  than  that  generally  admitted  into  a  tale 

bhe  has  a  true  respect  for  her  work,  and  never  permits  herself  to  "  make  books,"  and  yet  she  has  evidently  verv 
great  facility  in  making  them. 

There  are  few  writers  who  have  exhibited  a  more  marked  progress,  whether  in  freedom  of  touch  or  in  depth  of 
purpose,  than  the  authoress  of  "The  Ogilvies"  and  "John  Halifax." 


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CHARLES  LEVER'S  NOVELS. 


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gayety. — JOHN  BULL. 

"  This  well-known  humorous  and  sparkling  writer,  whose  numerous  laughter-pro- 
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seems  to  possess  an  endless  fund  of  entertainment" 


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14  DAY  USE 

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LD  21A-50m-8,'57 
(C8481slO)476B 


YC149041 


